^ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

PROFESSOR 
GEORGE  R.  STEWART 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.arcliive.org/details/friendsliipsofferOOstewricli 


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FRIENDSHIP'S  OFFERING : 


OHEISTMAS,   NEW   YEAR 


AND 


BIRTHDAY   PRESENT, 


FOR 


M  DcccxLi;^:. 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED  BY  PHILLIPS  &  SAMPSON. 

1849. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1 848, 

Bt  E.  H.  Butler  and  Co., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District 

of  Pennsylvania. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

Once  more  the  publishers  present  the  compliments  of  the  season 
to  the  patrons  of  Friendship's  Offering.  It  has  been  our  constant 
endeavour  from  the  commencement  of  the  series,  to  render  each 
succeeding  volume,  if  possible,  more  deserving  of  public  approval 
than  its  predecessor,  and  we  believe  that,  hitherto,  the  credit  of 
success  in  this  endeavour  has  been  freely  accorded  to  us.  Permit 
us  then  to  express  a  conviction  as  well  as  the  hope  that  this  tenth 
volume,  will  not  be  found  less  worthy  than  its  predecessors,  of 
the  established  reputation  and  steadily  increasing  circulation  of  the 
work. 

In  both  the  Editorial  and  Arfistical  departments,  we  believe  that 

/    continual  improvement  will  still  be  noticed,  and  the  well  known 

ability  of  those  engaged  in  producing  and  ornamenting  the  material 

is  deemed  a  sufficient  guarantee  for  its  present  and  future  excellence. 


CONTENTS. 


SUBJECTS.  '  ATJTnOR.  PAGIB, 

The  Dilemma N.  P.  Willis,  Esq 13 

Beauty  fades, ^  .: ^ .  Miss  S.  C.  L 21 

The  Smuggler's  Isle By  the  Author  of  Tales,  &c...  23 

Head  and  Tail Anonymous 48 

The  Tell-tale  Wreath Editor 53 

Paquita ;  from  the  French Fayette  Robinson 56 

Leoline Mrs.  Barclay 79 

Immoral  Essays Leitch  Ritchie 81 

Night John  Malcolm,  Esq 90 

The  Battle  Field Editor 95 

Faith  and  Scandal Camilla  Toulmiil 100 

Marguerite Anonymous 122 

The  Pet  Pigeon Editor 133 

The  Funeral  of  Saint  Columba.  B G 140 

The  Dying  Brigand J.  Bird,  Esq 160 

Bazaarsof  the  East J.  A.  St.  John 163 

Taking  the  Vail Editor 179 

The  Owl..... Thomas  Hood, Esq 184 

The  Dying  Mother Caroline  Bowles 1 90 

The  Painter  of  Munich Miss  Emma  Roberts 194 


VI  CONTENTS. 

StTRTKCTa.  AUTHOR.  PAGI!. 

The  Burial  at  Sea Editor 219 

Isa  Lord  Lennox 229 

The  Forest Mrs.  Barclay ' 239 

The  Sleeping  Partners T.  C.  Grattan,  Esq 241 

Stanzas  from  Lamartine B.  H.  Coates,  M.  D 260 

Leila Julian  Cramer. 263 

Memories  of  the  Second  Sight. .  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  LL.D.  265 

The  Neglected  Child Thomas  H.  Bayly 280 

You   can't  Marry   your  Grand- 
mother!  Thomas  H.  Bayly 283 

Reconciliation Editor 301 

Vanity  Fair Thomas  H.  Bayly 314 

The  FlowerGirlof  the  Pont  Neuf  Anonymous 317 

The  Fount  of  Tears Rev.  Thomas  Dale 323 

Sonnet H O , 325 

The  Haunted  Ship Author  of  "The  Sketch-book  326 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Subjects.  Painters.  Engravers.  Page. 

THE    DILEMMA STEPHANOFF SARTAIN..  FrOlltispieCG. 

THE   WIND    MILL SALMON SAttTAIN Vignette. 

THE   WREATH GARNIEtt SARTAIN 53 

THE    BATTLE  FIELD.  .    DELAROCHE SARTAIN 94 

THE    PET  PIGEON.  .  .  .    ANDRE SARTAIN 133 

TAKING  THE  VAIL,  ,  .    RUBIO SARTAIN 178 

FUNERAL  AT  .SEA.  .  .  .    JONES.  R.  A SARTAIN 318 

LEILA LEUTZE SARTAIN 363 

RECONCILIATION.  .  .  .    RUUIO SARTAIN 300 


w 


^ 


FRIENDSHIP'S    OFFERING, 


THE   DILEMMA. 


BT    N.    P.    -WILLIS,    ESQ. 


Strauss  was  playing  a  waltz  from  Robert  le  Diable, 
and  the  best  blood  of  Austria  was  stirred  in  its  haughty- 
veins  by  the  divinity  of  his  incomparable  instrument. 
It  is,  after  all,  a  world  of  some  equahty.  The  peasants 
of  Hietzing  and  the  Viennese  of  the  Volksgarten  danced 
almost  nightly  to  the  same  witchery  by  the  same  witch- 
ing player ;  and  in  that  mihtary  and  music-loving  nation, 
the  most  refined  and  vanishing  cadence  of  the  great 
master  was  as  thrillingly  felt  in  the  gardens  of  the 
suburb,  as  to-night  in  the  royal  palace  of  Schoenbrunn. 

The  great  saloon,  with  its  pillars  of  porphyry  and 
rosy  goddesses  in  fresco,  was  deluged  in  a  blaze  of 
light,  common  (as  the  attache  at  your  elbow  will  tell 
you,  lady!)  to  but  two  saloons  in  the  poUte  known 
world — this,  in  which  is  laid  the  scene  of  our  story, 
2 


14 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING, 


and  another  in  the  Palazzo  Pitti  of  the  Florentine. 
The  white  walls  of  Almack's,  I  must  needs  say,  are 
Cimmerian-dark  in  comparison. 

It  was  light  within — Hghter  than  day.  But  without, 
on  the  marhle  terrace,  and  in  the  broad  alleys  of  the 
imperial  gardens,  it  was  shadowy  and  starHght,  and 
.cool  as  the  nights  are  ever  in  June. 

Come  out  with  me  to  the  terrace  of  roses,  and  I  will 
show  you  the  heroine,  perhaps  the  hero,  of  my  story. 

"  What  a  breath  of  heaven  has  the  rose  to-night ! 
Now,  slowly,  and  look  well  at  the  promenaders  as  they 
pass.    She  will  be  here  where  wind  stirs  the  freshest." 

And  between  two  worshipping  lovers,  leaning  con- 
fidingly on  each,  came  the  Countess  Ermengarde  up 
the  terrace  of  roses.  She  was  looking  at  the  stars,  and 
the  younger  of  the  two  gentlemen  was  not.  The  elder 
wore  the  gold  key  of  a  chamberlain  at  his  side,  and  a 
diamond  cross  of  honour  at  his  breast ;  and,  with  hair 
shghtly  touched  with  grey,  but  eyes  of  undimmed 
enthusiasm  and  lustre,  he  discoursed  of  the  stars  to  the 
lovehest  lady  ever  cradled  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube. 

*<They  are  but  gates  to  the  source  of  hght  and  life, 
lady,"  he  said;  "and  we  shall  pass  through  them  as  we 
are  now  passing  through  this  world,  in  an  ascending 
order  of  existences." 


THE     DILEMMA.  15 

A  strain  of  a  waltz  poured  out  upon  the  air  that 
might  have  stirred  St.  Madelene  in  her  grave. 

** Cousin!"  said  the  younger  gentleman  for  the  third 
time  to  the  fair  listener,  pressing  her  arm  impatiently, 
and  looking  toward  the  blazing  windows  of  the  palace. 

<'Hear  what  the  baron  says,  my  dear  Maximilian!" 

<<  There  is  grave  reason  to  believe,"  continued  the 
chamberlain,  "that  there  are  lesser  worlds  than  ours, 
full  of  sentient  and  immortal  beings,  who  are  destined 
to  rise  to  this  world  in  their  progression,  as  we  have 
risen  from  theirs,  and  shall  still  rise  to  a  higher  and 
better ;  and  this  explains—" 

"Fair  cousin,"  interrupted  the  younger  gentleman, 
leaving  the  lady's  arm,  and  putting  himself  with  a  semi- 
circular step  directly  in  her  path,  "will  you  do  me  the 
honour  to  take  a  single  turn  in  the  dance  before  this 
divine  waltz  ceases  fw  ever  ?" 

The  lady  quietly  laid  her  arm  within  that  of  the 
impatient  boy,  turned  him  again  to  her  side,  and,  putting 
her  shght  foot  forward  as  if  to  recommence  their  saunter- 
ing promenade,  requested  the  baron  to  proceed. 

"Fairest  Meina!"  said  Count  Max,  dashing  from  the 
side  of  his  cousin,  and  springing  to  the  hand  of  a  blue- 
eyed  girl  who  stood  with  her  mother  by  a  vase  of 
flowering  cactus,  "you  are  a  truant  to  the  waltz."  And 
away  they  flew  to  the  dazzling  hall ;  and,  while  the 


16  friendship's    offering. 

pleased  mother  followed  morevslowly,  the  baron  moved 
on  with  his  fairer  companion,  explaining,  with  the 
increased  confidence  of  a  tete-a-tete,  his  theory  of  intima- 
tions of  a  previous  existence.^And  the  Lady  Ermen- 
garde  heard  not  one  syllable  of  it  all ! 

Two  mortal  weeks,  seven  days  each  and  seven  nights, 
had  given  themselves  and  their  events  into  the  hands  of 
history,  and  the  Countess  Ermengarde  sat  in  a  verandah 
of  her  own  chateau  upon  the  Danube,  looking  sometimes 
at  a  bow  of  a  moon  new  bent  in  the  sky,  and  sometimes 
up  an  avenue  by  which  might  arrive,  at  that  dewy 
hour,  a  slovenly  lad  in  the  Hvery  of  her  noble  house, 
bringing  (empty,  or  otherwise,  as  pleased  Providence)  a 


The  lady's  thoughts  had  just  wandered  from  a  certain 
theory  of  the  musical  order  of  the  stars  (mentioned  by 
Pythagoras),  to  a  certain  spot,  which  shall  be  mentioned 
presently,  on  the  Rhine,  when  the  clatter  of  hoofs  came 
up  the  avenue,  and  the  post-bag  was  safely  deUvered 
of  two  letters. 

It  will  be  rather  abrupt  to  mention  here,  that  the 
Baron  Asterisk  Von  Asterisk  was  a  man  who  deserved 
well  of  his  country.  He  had  deep,  wild,  unfathomable, 
German  eyes,  full  of  blue  sky  and  enthusiasm ;  and, 
besides  being  the  right-hand  man  of  Metternich,  he  was 


THE     DILEMMA.  17 

(what  required  study  less  profound)  a  most  passionate 
reader  of  the  stars.  These  two  quahties  had  taken  up 
their  abode  in  a  very  ehgible  tenement ;  and  the  baron 
(Count  Maximihan  Von  Lurlstein  could  not  well  deny 
it)  was  excessively  handsome. 

It  will  seem  scarce  apropos  again  to  remark,  that  the 
younger  of  the  two  lovers  mentioned  in  the  opening  of 
this  grave  tale,  was  the  Lady  Ermengarde's  cousin  (as 
cousins  go  in  Germany),  that  he  was  nineteen  (a  year 
older  than  herself),  very  good-looking,  very  wild  and 
good-for-nothing,  a  student  at  Heidelberg,  and  terribly 
in  love. 

The  Countess  Ermengarde  read  her  letters. 

"Dearest  Lady, 

The  star  which  winds  my  destiny  within  its 
golden  sphere  is  in  fortunate  conjunction.  I  have  waited 
for  it  with  the  impatience  of  love,  and  hasten,  ere  it 
sets,  to  offer  you  the  heart,  hand,  and  name  of  Asterisk 
Von  Asterisk.  Need  I  say  more  ?  We  will  read  the 
sparkling  wisdom  of  the  sky  together,  on  the  turrets  of 
Castle  Asterisk. 

Devotedly,  dearest  Lady, 

Your  own 
Asterisk  Von  Asterisk." 
2* 


18  friendship's    offering. 

The  Lady  Ermengarde  pressed  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
and  sat  lost  in  thought.  She  was  an  orphan,  and  the 
mistress  of  heTself  and  the  broad  estates  of  the  noblest 
house  of  Austria.  The  baron  was  handsome — yes, 
very  handsome  !  and  would  probably  be  the  successor 
of  Mettemich.  Ambition  whispered  with  a  most  cunning 
witchery  in  her  ear, 

Poor  Count  Maximilian  Von  Lurlstein  ! 

She  opened  the  other  letter.  It  was  from  her  newly 
departed  cousin,  dated  at  the  University  of  Heidelberg, 
and  contained  a  copy  of  verses,  and  something  at  the 
bottom,  which  the  Lady  Ermengarde  alone  (they  had 
learned  the  art  of  writing  together)  had  skill  to  decipher. 

The  lady  read  on  with  a  smile,  but  with  a  beating 
heart : — 

"TO  FAIREST  ERMENGARDE. 

**  I  know  not  if  the  sunshine  waste — 

The  world  is  dark  since  thou  art  gone ! 
The  hours  are,  oh,  so  leaden-paced  ! 

The  birds  sing,  and  the  stars  float  on, 
But  sing  not  well,  and  look  not  fair — 
A  weight  is  in  the  summer  air. 

And  sadness  in  the  sight  of  flowers ; 
And,  if  I  go  where  others  smile. 

Their  love  but  makes  me  think  of  ours, 


THE     DILEMMA.       ^  19 

And  heavier  gets  my  heart  the  while : 
Like  one  upon  a  desert  isle,  ' 

I  languish  of  the  weary  hours  ; 
I  never  thought  a  life  could  be 
So  flung  upon  one  hope,  as  mine,  dear  love,  on  thee ! 

"I  sit  and  watch  the  summer  sky- 
There  comes  a  cloud  thro'  heaven  alone, 

A  thousand  stars  are  shining  nigh — 
It  feels  no  light,  but  darkles  on ! 

Yet  now  it  nears  the  loveHer  moon, 
And,  flushing  thro'  its  fringe  of  snow, 

There  steals  a  rosier  dye,  and  soon 
Its  bosom  is  one  fiery  glow  ! — 

The  Glueen  of  Night  within  it  lies  ! 
Yet,  mark  how  lovers  meet  to  part : 

The  cloud' already  onward  flies. 
And  shadows  sink  into  its  heart,'§ 
And,  (dost  thou  see  them  where  thou  art?) 

Fade  fast,  fade  all  those  glorious  dyes  ! 
Its  Hght,  like  mine,  is  seen  no  more, 

And,  like  my  own,  its  heart  seems  darker  than  before  ! 

"  Where  press  this  hour  those  fairy  feet  ? 

Where  look  this  hour  those  eyes  of  blue  ? 
What  music  in  thine  ear  is  sweet  ? 

What  odour  breathes  thy  lattice  through  ? 


20 


What  word  is  on  thy  hp  ?    What  tone — 
What  look — replying  to  thine  own  ? 
Thy  steps  along  the  Danube  stray — 

Alas  !   it  seeks  an  Orient  sea  : 
Thou  wouldst  not  seem  so  far  away, 

Flow'd  but  its  waters  back  to  me  ! 
I  bless  the  slowly-coming  moon, 

Because  its  eye  look'd  late  in  thine ; 
I  envy  the  west  wind  of  June 

Whose  wings  will  bear  it  up  the  Rhine ; 
The  flower  I  press  upon  my  brow 
Were  sweeter  if  its  like  perfum'd  thy  chamber  now." 

The  Lady  Ermengarde  dropped  the  fair  hand  which 
held  the  letter  of  the  passionate  boy  across  the  almost 
fairer  hand  which  held  that  of  the  astrological  baron ; 
and,  with  the  tender  pleasure  from  those  caressing 
verses  still  warm  on  her  heart  and  hps,  endeavoured  to 
resolve  her  dilemma. 

As  it  was  a  struggle  between  love  and  ambition,  I 
do  not  well  see  the  propriety  of  stating  the  result.  I 
know  very  well  what  you  would  Uke,  mademoiselle ! 
but  I  am  not  so  sure  that  it  would  be  popular  with  your 
venerable  aunt.  I  shall  leave  you  to  resolve  the  dilemma 
on  your  own  responsibility. 


"BEAUTY    FADES." 


BY    MISS    S.    C.    L- 


Go  !  mark  the  lovely  flower, 

Where'er  bright  nature  sighs, 
It  hlooms  a  sunny  hour. 

The  next — it  droops  and  dies. 
But  dost  thou  scorn  its  fairy  shades. 
And  only  mourn  that  beauty  fades  * 

When  the  rich  twilight  beams 

Burn  in  the  golden  west, 
And  paint  their  glowing  dreams 

Of  sweeter,  purer  rest ; 
Then  dost  thou  turn  from  heaven's  rich  smile. 
And  murmur  still, — '< 'Twill  fade  erewhile." 

Or  when  some  glorious  star 

Glows  in  the  deep  blue  sky, 
With  not  a  cloud  to  mar 

The  brightness  of  its  eye  ; 
Dost  thou  contemn  its  radiant  light. 
Because  its  beams  must  wane  with  night  ? 


friendship's   offering. 

Is  not  sweet  nature's  book 
With  fairest  beauty  fraught  ? 

Canst  thou  in  sorrow  look 
On  all  thy  Father  wrought  ? 

No !  who  could  gaze  on  those  fair  things, 

Nor  feel  the  joy  such  beauty  brings  ? 

Then  wherefore  mourn  the  spell 

O'er  all  earth's  beings  cast, 
And  tremble  at  the  knell 

That  tells  of  glories  past  ? 
Though  our  own  beauty  withers,  yet 
Scorn  not  its  star  because  t'will  set. 

The  flowers — the  sunny  ray— 
The  burning  gems  of  night — 

All  these  may  pass  away, 
Ne'er  to  relrew  their  light : 

But  living  forms  of  beauty  wane, 

In  fairer  lands  to  beam  again. 


THE   SMUGGLERS'   ISLE. 

A  TALE  or  THE  SEA 
BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF   ''  TALES  AND  CONFESSIONS." 

The  sea-port  town  of  Mowbray,  every  body  knows, 
rose,  flourished,  and  fell  with  the  last  war.  A  faithful 
chronicle  of  its  fortunes  would,  no  doubt,  be  interesting 
to  the  curious  reader,  but  the  unthinking  many  would, 
I  fear,  prefer  the  stories  of  Tyre  and  Carthage.  There 
is  one  incident,  however,  in  the  annals  of  its  zenith, 
which  I  cannot  help  imagining  deserves  a  place  in 
history,  and  it  is,  therefore,  hereinunder  set  forth,  with 
the  brevity  and  simplicity  which  should  characterise 
the  historic  style.  No  sooner  had  Mowbray  begun  to 
emerge  from  the  insignificance  of  a  fishing  village,  and 
to  assume  a  place  among  the  number  of  maritime  towns, 
than  it  split,  according  to  what  seems  to  be  a  law  "made 
and  provided"  in  such  cases,  into  a  variety  of  petty  fac- 
tions. Every  man's  hand  was  against  his  neighbour, 
and  every  woman's  tongue  against  hers.  The  jarring 
atoms  of  society  at  length  separated,  as  they  usually  do, 
into  two  vast    masses ;    and    the   moral   and    political 


24  friendship's    offering. 

government  of  the  town  was  vested  in  the  two  chiefs, 
whose  purse  or  principles  possessed  this  chemical 
power  of  attraction. 

The  Montague  and  Capulet  of  Mowhray  were  two 
elderly  men,  whose  waxing  fortunes  increased  inversely 
with  their  waning  vigour.  They  could  remember 
when  their  native  place  was  little  better  than  a  ren- 
dezvous for  fishing  craft,  and  when  the  condescension 
of  a  Mediterranean  bark  in  accepting  the  protection  of 
its  bay  from  a  gale  of  wind,  was  matter  of  triumph  for 
a  month.  The  fortunes  of  the  place  were  now  mightily 
changed.  The  fishing  village  had  become  a  busy, 
busthng  port,  with  rich  argosies,  not  only  from  the  Con- 
tinental towns,  but  from  the  West  Indies,  lying  secure 
within  her  two  quays,  which  clasped  them  like  a  pair 
of  greedy  arms.  To  the  free  trade,  however,  as  it  is 
called  in  contradistinction  to  the  fair  trade,  Mowbray 
was  beholden  for  a  considerable  portion  of  its  wealth 
and  importance  ;  the  coast  being  singularly  well  adapted 
for  the  running  business,  while  as  yet  no  port-blockade 
had  been  established.  To  the  lawless  habits  introduced, 
and  rendered  familiar  in  such  cases,  it  was  owing,  that 
a  certain  wildness  wa§  exhibited  in  the  character  of  the 
people,  and  that  even  in  their  most  common  transactions 
there  was  manifested  a  portion  of  the  reckless  and  ad- 
venturous spirit  which,  on  a  great  scale,  furnishes  ma- 


THE     smuggler's     ISLE.  25 

terials  for  history,  and  on  a  small  scale  suggests  hints 
for  romance. 

The  Montague  of  this  place  was  a  Mr.  Mortimer,  and 
its  Capulet  Mr.  Grove;  the  resemblance  between  the 
real  and  fictitious  personages  being  further  kept  up  by 
the  circumstance  of  Mr.  Mortimer  having  a  son,  and 
Mr.  Grove  a  daughter.  A  bitter  hostility  had  existed 
between  the  two  families  from  time  immemorial,  which 
— ^^in  the  chronology  of  a  mushroom-town  like  Mowbray 
— means  somewhere  about  twenty  years,  and  had  con- 
tinued unabated  up  to  the  moment  when  the  son  and 
daughter  of  the  rival  houses  had  attained  that  period  of 
life  when  boys  and  girls  begin  to  think  of  love,  and 
their  fathers  and  mothers  of  matrimony.  When  old 
Mortimer  cast  his  eyes  around  among  his  neighbours, 
in  search  of  a  fitting  match  for  his  son,  his  view  was 
always  intercepted  by  a  great  glaring  white  house, 
towering  aloft  among  its  brethren  of  the  town,  with  an 
air  of  wealth  and  an  assertion  of  supremacy,  which 
made  him  sigh,  as  he  reflected  that  it  was  the  abode  of 
Mr.  Grove. 

When  old  Grove,  for  a  similar  purpose,  threw  a  keen 
and  discriminating  glance  among  the  smoky  mass  of 
bricks  and  mortar  around  him,  his  wandering  looks  re- 
turned unconsciously  to  fix  themselves  upon  a  huge 
red  house,  looking  grim  and  lowering  upon  its  neigh- 
3 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


hours,  and  by  its  very  absence  of  neatness  exhibiting 
the  careless  superiority  of  acknowledged  opulence. 
The  old  man  groaned  at  the  sight,  for  it  was  the  dwell- 
ing of  Mr,  Mortimer. 

When  Frank  Mortimer,  posting  himself  near  the 
church  door  after  the  service,  as  was  the  custom  of  the 
young  men  of  Mowbray,  surveyed  with  a  critical  eye 
the  blooming  lasses  of  the  town,  as  they  tripped  de- 
murely over  the  stones,  a  quick  bouncing  of  his  heart 
and  a  flushing  of  his  cheek  proclaimed,  almost  before 
her  appearance,  the  approach  of  Miss  Grove ;  and 
Frank  sighed  as  he  reflected  that  so  beautiful  a  creature 
was  the  daughter  of  his  father's  enemy. 

When  Ellen  Grove,  on  such  occasions,  turned  the 
angle  of  the  church  door,  her  proud  step  and  swan-like 
motion  were  broken,  and  her  tottering  walk,  rising 
colour,  and  conscious  look,  proclaimed  that  she  was 
about  to  pass  under  the  eyes  of  the  boldest  and  hand- 
somest youth  in  the  county  side,— -and  Ellen  sighed  at 
the  thought  that  he  was  the  son  of  the  hated  Mortimer. 

The  consequence  of  all  this  sighing  may  be  con- 
ceived. The  two  fathers,  far  from  being  inconsistent 
in  their  conduct,  only  yielded,  as  usual,  to  the  attraction 
of  interest.  Under  this  powerful  spell  their  enmity  was 
forgotten ; — they  shook  hands,  exchanged  visits,  and 
finally  signed  and  sealed  an  agreement,  by  which  Grove 


THE     smuggler's  ISLE.  27 

engaged  on  that  day  two  years  to  give  his  daughter  in 
marriage  to  Mortimer's  son,  with  a  portion  of  five  thou- 
sand pounds ;  and  Mortimer  consented  to  add  another 
thousand  to  the  stock  of  the  love-firm,  in  token  of  his 
good- will  and  further  intentions.  As  for  the  young 
people,  unlike  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  romance,  they 
entered  at  once,  with  the  most  filial  devotion,  into  the 
plans  of  their  parents ;  and  this  with  so  much  zeal  and 
spirit,  that,  on  the  very  day  of  the  introduction,  Mr. 
Grove,  on  entering  hastily  the  room  to  break  the  ice  of 
a  first  tete-a-tete,  was  at  once  surprised  and  rejoiced  to 
find  Frank  Mortimer  at  his  daughter's  feet. 

Two  years,  all  but  one  month,  elapsed.  Twenty- 
three  of  those  true  honeymoons  which  fight  up  the  para- 
dise of  love,  rolled  away.  Frank  Mortimer  passed  his 
nights  in  dreaming  of  bliss,  and  his  days  in  enjoying  it. 
The  marriage-day  was  fixed ;  the  promise-land  of  his 
heart  was  distinctly  visible  in  the  distance,  its  heights 
ghttering  in  the  morning  sun,  and  its  bowers  and  breath- 
ing groves  sparkhng  with  eternal  green.  One  morning, 
at  this  epoch,  a  report  arose  in  the  town,  no  one  knew 
whence  or  how.  It  was  whispered  by  one  to  another, 
with  pale  lips  and  faltering  speech ;  it  made  the  round 
of  the  counting-houses  like  some  watchword  of  terror 
and  dismay,  awakening  an  echo  of  alarm  wherever  it 
fell.     A  pause  then  succeeded — still — heavy — terrible ; 


»»  FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 

ai^d  in  the  evening  of  the  same  day  this  was  followed 
by  the  expected  crash — "  all  that  the  heart  beheved  not 
— ^yet  foretold  I" 

With  heaviest  sound  a  giant  statue  fell— 

the  firm  of  Mortimer  and  Co.  stopped  payment ! 

The  ruin  of  the  house,  occasioned  by  the  misconduct 
of  their  agents  abroad,  was  sudden  and  complete  ;  old 
Mortimer,  who  was  in  dechning  health  at  the  time,  died 
almost  immediately  of  the  shock,  and  Frank  became, 
in  the  same  moment,  an  orphan  and  a  beggar.  When 
his  stunned  and  bewildered  mind  had  somewhat  reco- 
vered from  the  blow,  he  hastened  to  the  counting-house 
to  open  the  letters  of  the  firm,  among  which  he  found 
the  following,- addressed  to  himself:-— 

"Dear  Sir, 

<*  Beg  to  condole  with  you  on  the  melancholy 
occasiouy — ^but  death  is  a  debt  that  must  be  paid  by  us 
all.  Refer  you  to  inclosed  copy  of  agreement  between 
the  late  Mr.  Francis  Mortimer,  sen.,  and  self,  by  which 
you  will  observe,  that  your  marriage  with  my  daughter 
depends  upon  the  clause  being  fulfilled,  which  provides 
for  one  thousand  pounds  being  paid  into  the  joint  stock 
by  you  or  the  said  Mr.  F.  M.,  senior.  Have  no  objec- 
tion to  sign  your  certificate ;  but,  as  there  appears  to  be 


29 


some  doubt  of  the  said  one  thousand  pounds  being  forth- 
coming on  the  twenty-third,  previous  the  marriage-day, 
as  per  agreement,  would  rather  decline  till  then,  and 
till  such  time  after  as  I  may  take  to  come  to  terms  with 
a  suitable  partner  for  my  daughter,  the  favour  of  your 
further  visits. 

"  I  am,  dear  Sir, 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

<^  John  Grove." 

This  third  blow  would  have  stunned  beyond  recovery 
a  feeble  or  timid  spirit ;  but  it  had  the  effect  of  rousing 
into  action  the  fainting  energies  of  Frank  Mortimer. 
The  letter  of  the  prudent  old  merchant  was  followed  by 
such  steps  as  a  man  more  accustomed  to  action  than  to 
theory  Would  be  hkely  to  adopt.  He  guarded  his 
daughter  from  the  very  looks  of  her  lover ;  and  as  for  a 
billet  reaching  her  hand  or  a  whisper  her  ear,  the  thing 
was  impossible.  Notwithstanding  his  precautions,  how- 
ever, a  flash  of  joy  might  have  been  observed  sometimes 
to  illumine  her  face,  as  a  seeming  stranger  would  pass 
suddenly  across  her  path  in  her  morning  walk  ;  in  the 
evening  too,  when  sauntering  along  the  beach,  which 
■v^as  the  mall  of  Mowbray,  a  great,  awkward,  lounging 
figure  of  a  sailor,  with  his  hands  stuck  in  his  pockets, 
was  regularly  seen  raising  his  httle  straw  hat  to  wipe 
3* 


30  friendship's    offering. 

his  brow  with  the  back  of  a  hard  tawny  hand  as  she 
neared  him. ;  and  in  water  excursions,  to  which  the  in- 
habitants of  the  place  were  passionately  addicted,  a 
small  boat,  rowed  by  a  single  man,  never  failed  to  cross 
the  bows  of  her  pleasure-yacht,  while  the  eyes  of  the 
young  lady  eagerly  followed  its  course,  till  the  object 
was  lost  in  the  distance. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  waxing  moon,  which  every 
evening  threw  more  and  more  Hght  on  these  dumb  and 
momentary  interviews,  proclaimed  that  that  twenty- 
third  day  was  at  hand,  on  which  the  mind's  eye  of  both 
had  been  fixed  for  two  years.  Mortimer,  at  first  rest- 
less and  unhappy,  became  now  almost  wild.  His  last 
hopes  of  a  residue  being  left  after  payment  of  the  debts, 
were  now  overturned;  the  agreement,  which  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  think  of  as  if  it  had  been  the  mar- 
riage contract,  was  about  to  expire ;  and  worse  than  all, 
a  new  suitor — unexceptionable  in  age,  person,  fortune, 
and  character — ^made  his  appearance,  ready  to  pounce 
upon  the  prize  as  soon  as  the  strict  mercantile  honour 
of  old  Grove  should  perinit  him  to  give  the  signal. 
The  very  constancy  of  Ellen,  who  relinquished  both  her 
walking  and  saihng  excursions  after  the  overtures  of 
the  rival,  deprived  him  of  every  opportunity  of  catching 
a  single  beam  of  hope  from  her  beautiful  eyes  ;  conceal- 
ing from  his  view  those  worshipped  stars  of  love,  the 


THE     smuggler's     ISLE.  31 

only  lights  which  of  late  had  been  visible  above  the 
misty  horizon  of  his  fate. 

One  day,  however,  feehng  probably  the  impohcy  of 
her  seclusion,  the  young  lady  consented  to  accompany 
her  future  lover  on  a  short  sail  in  the  bay,  and  escorted 
by  him,  she  repaired  to  the  pier  at  an  early  hour  in  the 
morning,  and  glanced  around  with  a  flushing  cheek 
and  restless  eye.  No  answering  look  met  hers.  A 
sailor,  in  her  father's  employment,  was  the  only 
boatman,  Mr.  Wingate  (the  aspirant)  being  himself 
skilful  in  such  matters  ;  and  the  only  spectator  was  an 
old  foreign-looking  seaman,  one  of  those  fellows  who, 
with  short  bowed  legs,  drooping  shoulders,  contracted 
eye-Hds,  and  hands  dug  in  their  pockets,  may  be  seen 
at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night  hulking  about  the  quays 
of  a  shipping  town.  This  man  eyed  their  preparations 
with  that  contemptuous  curiosity  which  is  often  vouch- 
safed by  such  personages,  to  the  small  afiair  of  getting 
a  pleasure-boat  under  way;  but  sometimes,  with  a 
greater  appearance  of  interest,  he  turned  his  face  to  the 
weather  quarter,  which  presented,  as  might  have  been 
conjectured  from  his  manner,  indications  not  strikingly 
auspicious.  Mr.  Wingate  himself  was  probably  not 
altogether  free  from  suspicion ;  for  ever  and  anon  he 
turned  behind  him  a  restless  and  somewhat  anxious 
look,  which  was  then  suddenly  transferred  to  the  black- 


33 


ened  waters  of  the  sea,  rising  in  slow  and  sullen  surges 
before  him,  as  if  moved  rather  by  some  internal  impulse 
than  by  the  slight  gusts  which  blew  from  the  land. 
The  opportunity,  however,  was  tempting  to  one  who 
had  so  long  sought  for  it  in  vain;  and  beside,  it  was 
more  than  probable  that  any  backwardness  on  the  part 
of  the  gallant  might  materially  injure  his  character  in 
the  estimation  of  a  lady,  brought  up,  as  the  song  says, 
with  "one  foot  on  sea,  and  one  on  shore." 

At  the  moment  of  embarkation,  he  recollected  that 
the  bundle  of  shawls  and  cloaks  had  been  forgotten, 
which  forms  so  indispensable  a  part  of  the  appliances 
on  such  occasions,  and  begged  the  marine  idler  on  the 
quay  to  go  up  to  the  house  and  fetch  it ;  but  the  latter, 
affronted  possibly  at  the  offer  of  money  which  accom- 
panied the  request,  replied,  with  characteristic  brevity, 
"Nein:  dat  is,  no!  Donner!  go  yourself;"  and  jerk- 
ing up  his  canvas  trowsers,  turned  away  upon  his  heel. 
The  boatman  being  engaged  in  clearing  the  tackle,  Mr. 
Wingate  was  thus  compelled  to  set  out  upon  the  errand 
himself,  which  he  did  at  full  speed. 

The  foreigner,  having  probably  more  sympathy  with 
one  of  his  own  class  and  calling,  now  returned  to  the 
edge  of  the  pier,  and  looked  earnestly  at  the  boatman ; 
when  the  latter,  as  if  struck  with  a  sudden  thought, 
started  instantly  up  and  exclaimed,  "  Shiver  me,  if  I 


33 


ha'nt  forgot,  holloa,  mounseer !  give  an  eye  for  a  mo- 
ment, will  ye  ?"  And  immediately  scrambling  upon  the 
quay,  he  scudded  off  in  the  wake  of  his  master.  At 
that  instant,  a  heavy  gust  rattled  among  the  half-bent 
sails,- and  Miss  Grove,  with  a  momentary  feehng  of 
alarm,  called  out  to  the  seaman  to  see  that  the  mooring 
line  was  fast. 

"Good  God!"  she  cried,  "he  does  not  understand 
me  !  Wretch !  leave  it  alone  !"  But  the  old  tar  had 
already,  with  perfect  composure,  "hove  off"  the  folds 
of  the  rope  from  the  post. 

"  Ya,  my  tear,  ya !"  he  repHed,  in  a  complacent 
growl,  to  her  exclamation,  as  he  threw  the  coil  upon 
the  deck.  The  liberated  vessel  plunged  Hke  a  mettled 
steed  when  the  bridle  is  thrown  over  his  head,  and  then 
dipped  on  the  leeward  side,  till  the  water  rushed  over 
the  gunwale.  The  re-action,  which  naturally  took 
place, — there  being  as  yet  no  way  upon  her, — ^brought 
the  mast  within  a  couple  of  yards  of  the  quay ;  and  the 
sailor,  springing  upon  the  shrouds,  was  upon  the  deck 
in  an  instant.  No  sooner  had  his  hands  emerged  from 
the  accustomed  pockets,  than  the  stoop  disappeared 
from  his  shoulders,  the  bow  from  his  legs,  and  the  con- 
traction from  his  eyes.  One  minute  sufficed  to  shake 
out  the  main-sail ;  in  the  next,  the  fore -sail  and  jib  rat- 
tled up  the  rigging;   and  the  third  found  Mortimer 


34 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


seated  in  the  stern,  one  arm  embracing  the  hehn,  and 
the  other  the  waist  of  his  fair  mistress. 

The  Httle  vessel  was  cutter-rigged,  and  three-quarter 
decked,  with  a  gangway  all  round,  for  the  purpose  of 
working  the  ship  without  incommoding  the  passengers. 
She  was  as  tight  and  trim  a  concern  of  the  kind  as 
could  well  be  imagined ;  and  in  ordinary  weather,  with 
two  men  on  board,  would  have  Hved  in  any  sea  that 
runs  upon  the  Enghsh  coast.  She  was  now  destined, 
however,  to  form  a  closer  acquaintanceship  with  wind 
and  water  than  usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  pleasure- 
boat.  The  lovers  lost  all  recollection  of  their  situation, 
in  the  enjoyment  of  their  good  fortune.  Mortimer 
steered  mechanically ;  and  when  a  more  than  ordinary 
lurch  took  place,  the  warning  was  lost  in  the  closer  em- 
brace it  authorized.  At  length,  startled  into  remem- 
brance by  a  heavy  shower-bath  of  spray,  Ellen  insisted 
upon  returning. 

"We  may  land,"  said  she,  "on  the  Point,  where 
there  is  no  creature  visible,  and  you  will  easily  escape 
undetected.  The  affair  will  pass  for  a  sailor's  froHc, 
and  will  leave  Httle  for  remembrance  behind,  excepting 
the  satisfaction  we  shall  both  feel  in  the  certainty  of 
each  other's  fidelity." 

"  We  shall  land  on  the  Point,"  said  Mortimer  firmly, 
directing  her  attentipn  to  a  promontory  nearly  twelve 


35 


miles  distant ;  "  you  shall  reside  under  the  protection 
of  my  aunt  till  arrangements  are  made  with  your  father : 
he  will  never  dream  of  opposition  after  matters  have 
gone  so  far.  The  worst  that  can  happen,  will  be  the 
loss  of  your  portion ;  hut  even  for  that  I  have  provided. 
I  can  enter  the  merchant  service  whenever  I  please,  as 
first  mate,  and  it  will  be  hard  if  in  a  couple  of  voyages 
you  do  not  find  yourself  a  captain's  lady !" 

Ellen  sat  stupified  for  a  moment  by  the  abruptness 
and  audacity  of  the  proposal ;  but  recovering  immedi- 
ately, she-,  with  crimsoned  cheek  and  flashing  eyes,  bit- 
terly upbraided  him  for  what  she  termed  his  treachery. 

"You  speculate,"  said  she,  "on  my  reputation,  as 
you  would  upon  an  article  of  traffic.  My  father,  you 
argue,  must  either  consent  to  your  wishes,  or  his  daugh- 
ter will  remain  disgraced  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  !  Is 
this  the  conduct  of  a  lover  ?  Great  heaven !  is  it  the 
conduct  of  a  man?"  And  she  gave  way  to  a  passion- 
ate burst  of  tears.  Mortimer  could  have  stood  the 
thunder  of  a  woman's  tongue ;  but  in  the  rain  which 
followed  from  her  eyes,  his  sturdiest  resolution  melted 
away.  With  a  heavy  sigh,  expressing  at  once  anger, 
sh^me  and  sorrow,  he  gave  his  project  to  the  winds, 
and  prepared  for  putting  the  vessel  about. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  portentous  blackness  in  the 
windward  horizon,  which  had  attracted  his  attention  on 


'86  friendship's   offering. 

the  quay,  was  greatly  increased  in  size,  and  the  gusts 
swept  longer  and  heavier  every  moment  over  the  bosom 
of  the  deep.  The  smooth  and  confused  surges  which 
had  risen  sullenly  around  the  cutter,  were  now  roUing 
in  huge  yet  low  masses  to  leeward,  proclaiming,  by  the 
volume  of  their  base,  the  size  of  the  superstructure  they 
were  prepared  to  sustain.  Already  the  ridges  of  some 
were  broken  into  boihng  foam;  and  a  hoarse  yet  not 
unmusical  voice,  from  the  whole  body  of  the  waters, 
fell,  with  a  solemn  and  foreboding  sound,  upon  the  ear. 
Every  thing  proclaimed  the  coming  of  a  storm.  The 
screaming  sea-birds,  as  they  winged  their  flight  towards 
the  land,  hung  low  down  over  the  surface,  as  if  the 
tempest  already  rode  in  upper  air;  the  cautious  sea- 
men, near  the  shore,  might  be  observed  securing  their 
craft,  both  large  and  small,  from  some  expected  danger ; 
and  in  the  offing,  every  stick  and  stitch  on  the  sea  was 
stretching  eagerly  to  the  nearest  port. 

The  little  cutter  went  gallantly  about ;  but  before  re- 
covering her  way,  a  sudden  squall  nearly  threw  her  on 
her  beam-ends.  It  was  no  time  to  trifle.  The  squall 
was .  succeeded  by  others  in  quickened  succession,  till 
the  whole,  blending  as  it  were  into  one,  became  entitled 
to  the  formidable  name  of  a  storm.  Ellen,  undaunted 
for  a  time,  grasped  the  helm  with  both  hands,  while 
Mortimer,  jumping  fore  and  aft,  as  the  circumstances  ' 


THE     smuggler's     ISLE.  37 

required,  took  in  every  inch  of  canvas  that  could  be 
spared.  It  was  an  exciting  moment.  The  tight  httle 
vessel,  holding  on  by  the  water,  as  if  actuated  by  some 
living  and  reasoning  impulse, — now  toiling  up  the  steep 
of  some  enormous  wave,  whose  ridges  of  boiling  foam 
hung  high  and  howling  above  her, — and  now  sweep- 
ing gallantly  into  an  abyss,  formed,  it  might  seem,  by 
the.  flight  of  the  billows  before  a  conquering  foe, — pre- 
sented a  proud  and  magnificent  spectacle  to  those  who 
were  identified  with  the  struggle,  and  whose  fate  was 
involved  in  the  event. 

Ellen,  with  uncovered  head,  and  long  dark  hair  float- 
ing wildly  upon  the  storm,  stood  straining  the  helm 
with  convulsive  energy  to  her  bosom,  one  foot  fixed 
firmly  at  midships,  and  the  other  anclordeep  in  the 
water  which  now  rushed  over  the  lee  gunwale.  Her 
eyes,  turned  to  the  weather  bow,  looked  proudly  and 
boldly  upon  the  tempest,  while  a  bright  glow,  called 
into  her  cheek  as  much  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the  mo- 
ment as  by  the  agency  of  that  unseen  Spirit  whose 
chariot  is  the  cold  wind  and  whose  dwelling  is  on  the 
deep,  gave  an  appearance  of  almost  unearthly  beauty 
to  her  face.  Mortimer,  as  he  hung  upon  the  mast, 
casting  a  quick  and  wary  eye  around  him,  could  not 
help  losing  some  moments  in  gazing  on  this  apparition 
of  the  sea ;  but  the  helm  soon  became  too  unruly  for  her 
hands,  and  laying  her  down  upon  the  planks,  protected 
4 


38  friendship's    offering. 

in  some  measure  by  the  gangway  and  deck,  he  re- 
sumed his  place  at  the  stern. 

A  moment  of  inaction  was  sufficient  to  chase  the 
colour  from  her  cheek ;  and  she  turned  a  look  of  pale 
and  terrified  inquiry  upon  her  lover. 

"There  is  no  help  for  it,  Ellen,"  said  he,  after  a 
pause.  "  The  wind  has  veered  round  to  the  north- 
west, and  now  sits  steadily  midway  between  the  in- 
tended point  of  my  landing  and  the  quays  of  Mowbray. 
You  will  see  neither  my  aunt  nor  your  father  to-night. 
We  must  run  for  it !" 

"  Where  ?"  inquired  Ellen  faintly. 

<*To  the  Smuggler's  Isle."  Ellen  shuddered  at  this 
announcement ;  for  she  knew  that  doubt  must  have 
bordered  upon  despair  before  Mortimer  would  have 
proposed  so  almost  hopeless  a  step.  The  Smuggler's 
Isle  was  a  barren  rock,  some  distance  out  at  sea,  on 
which  a  hght-house  had  formerly  stood,  but  which  was 
now  removed  to  the  mainland.  Beside  the  risk  of 
going  down  in  the  dangerous  sea  between,  if  the 
entrance  to  one  of  the  winding  creeks  with  which  the 
island  is  indented,  was  not  hit  with  the  nicest  precision, 
a  much  stronger  vessel  than  theirs  would  go  to  pieces 
upon  the  sharp  rocks  at  the  first  blow.  There  was  no 
help  for  it,  however,  as  he  had  said ;  and  to  the  "What 
say  you,  Ellen  ?"  which  Mortimer  whispered  in  breath- 
less  anxiety,   she   answered   faintly,   "  Run !"      The 


THE     SMUGGLER  S     ISLE.  d» 

next  moment,  the  vessel,  with  ahout  a  handkerchief  of 
canvas,  was  plunging,  remote  and  alone,  before  the 
storm,  leaving  far  behind  the  hospitable  shore,  and 
diving  madly,  as  a  landsman  would  have  thought,  into 
the  unknown  wilds  of  the  desert  sea.  , 

That  night  the  Smuggler's  Isle  presented  a  scene 
resembhng  a  country  inn,  in  which  travellers  of  every 
opposite  character  and  pursuit  are  shuffled  into  temporary 
contact  or  coUision.  The  crew  of  a  smuggling  sloop, 
which  had  sought  refuge  among  the  rocks,  were  thrown 
into  consternation  by  a  luminous  appearance  in  the 
ruined  light-house,  from  which  the  lamp  had  been 
banished  for  many  years ;  and  the  captain  and  his  four 
satellites  crept  silently  and  cautiously  to  the  spot.  Chmb- 
ing  to  the  broken  window,  the  leader  could  not  restrain 
an  exclamation  of  surprise  as  he  beheld  a  young  lady, 
of  extraordinary  beauty,  standing  beside  the  fire-place, 
which  blazed  with  wood  apparently  just  torn  from  the 
walls.  The  female  darted  into  an  inner  chamber  at  the 
noise  of  his  approach,  and  as  the  outlaw  jumped  upon 
the  floor,  his  men  made  their  appearance  by  the  more 
legitimate  avenue  of  the  door;  and  the  party  stood 
confronting,  for  an  instant,  a  young  man  in  a  sailor's 
dress,  who  seemed  ostensibly  the  sole  inhabitant  of  the 
mysterious  domain. 

The  next  moment  the  stranger  was  in  the  clutches 


4l>  friendship's   offering. 

of  the  nifpans,  and  Captain  Brock  making  his  way 
eagerly  to  the  inner  apartment;  when,  by  a  sudden 
effort,  the  prisoner  burst  from  his  jailers,  and  darting 
upon  their  captain  seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  said 
in  a  low,  stern  whisper, — '^  Brock,  are  you  mad  ? — you 
are  about  to  ruin  both  your  own  fortune  and  mine ;  look 
at  me — I  am  Frank  Mortimer." 

The  smuggler  stared  at  the  announcement,  but  was 
speedily  able  to  identify  the  stranger  with  the  only 
remaining  representative  of  the  once  great  firm  of 
Mortimer  and  Co.  He  motioned  his  men  to  withdraw ; 
and  leading  Frank  to  the  fire  by  the  button,  with  the 
familiarity  produced  by  an  anticipated  fellowship  in 
crime,  inquired,  ^'  But  what  do  you  want  with  me, 
Master  Frank, — and  what  do  you  mean  to  do  with  the 
girl?" 

"Can  you  ask,"  answered  Mortimer,  "what  is  the 
intention  of  a  ruined  and  desperate  man  in  seeking  the 
friendship  of  a  bold  smuggler  ?  As  for  the  girl,  that 
was  a  chance  affair;  but  one  that  will  enable  me  to 
begin  my  new  career  in  briUiant  style.  She  is  the 
daughter  of  old  Grove.  On  a  sailing  excursion  this 
morning,  with  Mr.  Wingate,  her  intended  husband,  we 
were  driven  by  the  storm  to  take  shelter  here  :  the  boat 
struck  upon  the  rocks,  and  went  down, — every  soul 
perishing  but  Miss  Grove  and  myself.  My  proposal  is 
this.     Let  us  carry  her  off  to  Holland,  where  I  know 


THE     smuggler's     ISLE.  41 

you  are  bound,  and  then  go  share  and  share  in  the 
ransom." 

The  smuggler's  eyes  sparkled  at  the  bright  sugges- 
tion, and  his  satisfaction  evinced  itself  in  a  volley  of 
oaths. 

''Hush  !"  whispered  Mortimer;  "we  are  now  upon 
honour  with  each  other.  The  affair,  you  understand, 
is  to  be  managed  by  you  alone — I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  As  soon  as  day  breaks,  I  will  throw  the  things 
I  have  saved  from  the  wreck  into  that  old  trunk,  and 
carry  it  on  board  of  you.  I  expect  to  find  you  by  that 
time  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  and  ready  for  sea. 
Having  thus  made  a  prisoner  of  me, — prisoner  you 
understand, — I  cannot  prevent  you,  if  you  have  a  mind, 
from  coming  over  to  the  light-house  and  carrying  off 
the  lady  too." 

•  "It  will  do  ! — I  see  it ! — I  take  it !"  ejaculated  the 
smuggler,  as  Mortimer  pushed  him  towards  the  door. 
"Goodnight."     . 

"Good  night,"  said  the  latter ; — "Captain !  honour ?" 

"  Oh,  honour !  honour !" 

The  next  morning  the  wind  had  fallen  considerably 
when  the  faint  light  of  the  dawn  first  streamed  upon  the 
black  bosom  of  the  sea.  The  waves,  although  still 
rising  in  wreaths  of  foam  upon  the  rocks  of  the 
Smuggler's  Isle,  rolled  elsewhere  along  in  almost 
unbroken  masses,  seeming  to  owe  their  remaining 
4* 


42  friendship's   offering. 

agitation  more  to  unquiet  recollections  of  the  preceding 
day,  than  to  the  actual  agency  of  the  morning  breeze. 
The  ocean  was  no  longer  a  desert ;  for  some  far  and 
filmy  masts  might  already  be  descried  in  the  offing ; 
and  along  the  crowded  coast,  among  the  still  lingering 
shadows  of  night,  the  symptoms  were  discernible  of 
renewed  activity.  The  smugghng  sloop  was  already 
at  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  moored  to  both  sides  by 
strong  tackle ;  the  decks  were  cleared,  and  every  thing 
in  proper  order  for  getting  under  way  at-  a  moment's 
notice.  The  crew  were  anxiously  looking  out  for 
Mortimer's  appearance ;  and  as  the  increasing  hght 
disclosed  every  minute  more  and  more  of  the  distant 
coast,  a  darker  shade  was  observed  to  lower  upon  the 
brow  of  Captain  Brpck. 

The  expected  passenger  was  at  length  seen  toiling 
along  the  ridges  of  the  rocks,  with  a  trunk  upon  his 
shoulders,  the  size  and  apparent  weight  of  which  very 
easily  accounted  for  his  delay.  On  his  arrival,  the 
captain  and  he  shook  hands  in  silence;  and  a  significant 
glance  from  Mortimer  directed  the  eyes  and  thoughts 
of  his  new  friend  to  the  hght-house. 

"Shall  we  stow  your  chest  away  in  the  hold?" 
asked  the  captain. 

"There  is  no  need,"  said  Mortimer,  "we  shall  have 
plenty  of  time  by  and  by;  and  the  object  now" — 
pointing  to  the  far  coast,  where  the  craft  by  this  time 


THE     smuggler's     ISLE*  43 

were  seen  stirring  like  bees— "is  to  get  clear  out  to 
sea  without  the  loss  of  a  moment.'* 

Captain  Brock  and  two  of  his,  satellites  hereupon 
sprang  upon  the  rocks,  and  armed  with  nothing  more 
than  a  piece  of  canvas,  contrived  to  serve  the  purpose 
of  a  palanquin  in  case  of  need,  took  their  way  to  the 
ruined  light-house. 

.While  they  were  still  in  sight,  Mortimer  stood  gazing 
upon  the  party  with  an  uneasy  look ;  but  when  they 
had  disappeared  among  the  rocks,  he  turned  with  a 
sudden  and  decided  motion  to  the  remaining  man.  His 
air  expressed  perhaps  more  of  hostihty  than  he  intended 
to  exhibit ;  for,  as  an  idea  of  treachery  seemed  to  enjter 
the  smuggler's  mind,  a  shout  of  warning  or  for  help^ 
which  perhaps  no  personal  danger  could  have  extorted, 
rung  over  the  deep.  The  next  moment  a  heavy  plunge 
in  the  water  told  what  were  his  thanks  for  his  gratuitous 
communication,  and  on  the  ridge  of  a  broken  wave  he 
was  conveyed  to  the  land,  and  discharged  most 
emphatically  upon  a  ledge  of  the  cHff. 

The  shout,  however,  had^sufficed  to  alarm  the  smug- 
gling captain  and  his  two  men,  and  they  were  now 
seen  rushing  furiously  back  to  the  vessel.  The  catas- 
trophe had  been  brought  on  prematurely,  and  Mortimer 
perceived  no  means  at  hand  of  severing  the  cables  more 
efficacious  or  expeditious  than  the  clasp-knife  he  had  in 
his  pocket.     To  work,  therefore,  he  went  with  his  frail 


4t4  friendship's   offering. 

instrument,  and  cut,  and  sawed,  and  hacked  for  very- 
life.  Every  moment  the  holloa  of  the  smugglers  came 
louder  upon  his  eai;;  and  the  indistinct  glance  he  was 
enabled  to  take  of  his  enemies,  without  raising  his  eyes 
from  the  rope,  told  him  that  they  had  already  sur- 
mounted the  highest  ridge  of  the  cliff.  This  singular 
property  of  vision  which  the  eyes  possess,  of  seeing 
without  looking,  appeared  at  the  time  to  be  more  a 
quality  of  the  mind  exercising  its  mysterious  functions 
without  the  agency  of  the  bodily  organs :  he  felt  their 
approach  without  seeing  it;  their  feet  trode  upon  his 
heart,  when  as  yet  the  sound  of  their  steps  \ms  unheard. 
To  have  been  able  to  fling  upon  the  work  in  which 
he  was  engaged  his  utmost  strength — to  tear  with  hands 
and  teeth — to  struggle  till  his  sinews  cracked  and  his 
heart  was  ready  to  burst — -would. have  been  comparative 
enjoyment.  But  the  weak  blade  required  the  nicest 
and  gentlest  management,  and  while  his  whole  frame 
trembled  with  terror  and  impatience,  his  hand  was 
obliged  to  move  like  tha:t  of  a  lady,  when  armed  with  a 
pair  of  scissors  for  the  destruction  of  silk  or  gauze. 
The  shout  of  the  smugglers  became  louder  as  they 
approached,  and  their  steps  now  grated  harshly  upon 
the  rocks.  A  cold  sweat  broke  over  Mortimer's. forehead, 
as  all  the  horrors  of  Ellen's  situation  rushed  upon  his 
mind.  Well  he  knew  the  desperado  into  whose  power 
she  must  shortly  fall — he  could  hear  the  boards  of  her 


THE     SMUGGLER  S     ISLE.  45 

prison  creaking  with  her  struggles  for  freedom — he 
could  even  hear  the  convulsive  catching  of  her  breath ; 
and  amply  did  he  appreciate  the  loftiness  of  spirit  which 
repressed  every  cry  of  womanish  terror ;  which  refrained 
from  interrupting  by  the  very  sound  of  her  voice,  the 
labours  of  him  who  she  knew  was  labouring  for  her 
deliverance. 

The  smugglers  were  now  at  hand^ — they  gained  the 
edge  of  the  cliff —  they  threw  themselves  into  their 
boat,  and  with  cries  of  mingled  rage,  blasphemy,  and 
exultation,  pushed  furiously  towards  the  vessel.  At 
this  moment,  by  a  heavy  roll  of  the  sea,  a  sudden  strain 
was  given  to  the  nearly  severed  rope,  which  broke  with 
a  loud  report,  and  the  sloop  drifted  a  few  yards,  and 
swung  by  the  remaining  cable.  Mortimer's  eyes  were 
lighted  up  with  a  momentary  gleam  of  hope  ;  but  when 
he  saw  that  the  weight  and  pitching  of  the  vessel  had 
no  effect  upon  the  single  rope  by  which  she  was  now 
held,  and  when  he  knew  that  a  few  strokes  of  their 
oars  were  sufficient  to  bring  the  smugglers  alongside,  it 
gave  way  to  absolute  despair. 

The  lurch,  however,  had  had  the  effect  of  splitting 
the  chest  in  which  Ellen  was  confined,  against  a  bulk. 
The  next  instant  she  stood  before  Mortimer ;  and,  as  the 
boat  of  the  assailants  rattled  against  the  ship's  side,  and 
a  wild  huzza  burst  from  the  qfew,  she  snatched  the 
knife  from  his  hand  and  replaced  it  with  a  handspike. 


46  friendship's   offering. 

Mortimer  was  now  in  his  element.  Brock  first 
appeared  upon  the  gunwale,  and  was  received  with  a 
tremendous  blow,  which  laid  him  sprawling  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat.  His  comrades  met  successively  with 
the  same  salutation ;  and  as  Ellen  worked  at  the  rope 
with  more  skill  and  ingenuity  than  her  lover,  it  might 
have  seemed  that  the  fate  of  the  action  was  at  least 
doubtful.  The  smugglers,  howevery  used  to  hard  knocks, 
were  no  sooner  down  than  up  again ;  Mortimer's  arm 
grew  weaker  at  every  blow ;  and  at  length,  quite  spent 
with  fatigue,  he  lost  his  balance,  and  nearly  fell  over- 
board. 

A  hoarse  roar  of  exultation  rose  from  the  boat's  crew 
as  they  extended  their  hands  to  drag  him  into  the  boat ; 
and  although  their  triumph  was  deferred  by  a  lofty 
wave  rising  between,  when  it  subsided  the  two  vessels 
came  together  with  a  crash,  which  threatened  to  prove 
fatal  to  the  weaker. 

A  shrill  scream  from  Ellen  startled  the  dbmbatants 
on  both  sides.  It  was  a  scream  of  joy;  for,  at  that 
moment,  the  rope  burst  with  a  noise  hke  the  report  of  a 
musket,  and  the  sloop  drifted  to  leeward.  The  smug- 
gler's boat  had  received  so  much  injury  in  the  coUision, 
that  instead  of  being  able  to  pursue,  they  had  much 
difficulty  in  gaining  the  rocks  before  she  filled  and 
went  down. 

It  is  a  matter  of  dispute  among  historians,  whether 


THE     smuggler's     ISLE.  47 

old  Grove  would,  in  any  case,  have  refused  to  sanction 
the  union  of  the  lovers,  after  the  foregoing  adventure. 
His  magnanimity,  however,  was  not  put  to  the  trial ;  for 
Mortimer  obtained  an  advance  on  the  same  evening 
(the  23d)  of  one  thousand  pounds,  on  his  share  of  the 
revenue  prize.  The  bond  was  thus  implemented  in  ail 
its  parts;  and  Mortimer  and  Ellen  entered  forthwith 
into  partnership  as  husband  and  wife,  and  became  one 
of  the  first  houses  in  Mowbray  in  the  great  business  of 
matrimony. 


HEAD   AND   TAIL. 

A    FABLE. 

List  to  my  tale  !     An  ancient  snake, 
CoiPd  on  the  margin  of  the  lake, 
His  choice  repast  of  pick'rel  done, 
Lay  basking  in  the  ev'ning  sun. 
When  thus  the  Tail  address'd  the  Head, 
And  in  complaining  accents  said, — 
"Good  sir,  for  years,  and  many  a  mile. 
O'er  mountain,  moor,  and  dark  defile  ; 
Through  cold  and  heat,  by  night,  by  day. 
Where'er  your  Headship  led  the  way, 
I've  mov'd  with  steady  pace,  behind. 
Nor,  to  this  hour,  have  once  repin'd. 
Where,  coil'd  within,  you  safely  slept. 
The  outward  watch  I've  truly  kept ; 
And  when  the  lake  you  chose  to  sail, 
I've  been  your  most  obedient  tail. 


HEAD     AND     TAIL.  49 

Now  sir,  in  truth,  I  do  not  know 
The  reason,  why  'tis  order'd  so ; 
That  all  the  sov'reign  pow'r  should  be 
From  me  withheld,  and  giv'n  to  thee. 
Though  you,  sir  Head,  I  can't  deny  't 
Have  order'd  all  our  windings  right, 
'Twould  be  but  fair,  would  you  concede. 
That,  now  and  then,  the  Tail  should  lead." 

<<  My  friend,  it  cannot  be  denied," 
The  Head,  with  accent  mild,  rephed, 
"  That  I  have  never  known  you  fail, 
In  what  became  a  faithful  tail. 
It  is  by  Providence  decreed. 
That  Tails  should  follow.  Heads  should  lead : 
Go,  ask  the  oldest  snakes,  you'll  find, 
That  Tails  have  always  gone  behind. 
But  as  thou  wilt,  so  let  it  be, 
Proceed,  and  I  will  follow  thee." 
The  Tail,  enraptur'd  with  dehght. 
Set  forth,  at  once,  with  all  his  might ; 
Down  to  the  lake  his  course  he  bent, 
And  forward,  Tail  on  end,  he  went. 
The  younger  serpents  star'd  aghast. 
And  rais'd  their  heads  up,  as  he  pass'd ; 
And*  all  agreed  the  case  was  plain. 
Some  strange  conceit  had  tuin'd  his  brain. 
5 


50  friendship's   offering. 

At  length,  the  Tail,  elate  with  pride, 
Had  fairly  reached  the  farther  side ; 
And  on  he  journey'd,  winding  through 
~^     A  place  where  thickest  alders  grew. 

'Twixt  two,  though  placed  extremely  near, 
The  Tail  conceiv'd  the  path  was  clear ; 
And  on  he  press'd,  till  caught  at  last, 
Between  them  both,  they  held  him  fast. 
He  tried  t'  escape,  but  tried  in  vain. 
And  twisted,  tum'd,  and  writh'd  for  pain. 
At  length  convinced,  he  meekly  cried, 
**Good  sir,  I  now  am  satisfied. 
Pray  take  the  lead  once  more,  and  I 
Will  follow  humbly,  'till  I  die." 

The  Head,  at  once,  resum'd  the  lead. 
And,  gliding  forth,  with  wonted  speed, 
Repass'd  the  lake,  and  in  a  coil, 
Enjoy'd  sound  slumber,  bought  with  toil. 


ViKlK    WtSiE  A'^u'lSln 


•r^/ 


THE   TELL-TALE  WREATH. 

BY    THE    EDITOR. 

They  say  he  will  he  here  to-night, 

With  all  the  suitor  band, 
Allured  like  moths  around  the  light, 

By  the  Heiress  and  her  land : 

And  I  must  bind  my  hair  with  flowers 

For  one  I  never  saw, 
iBecause  his  grounds  adjoin  to  ours, 

And  mother  gives  the  law. 

So,  I  must  bid  these  flowers  to  he ; 

For  each  one  has  a  voice. 
And  how  am  I  to  know  that  I 

Approve  my  mother's  choice  ? 

The  laurustinus  in  the  wreath. 
Must  mark  a  "  token"  sent; 

The  star-wort  slyly  shows  beneath, 
For  whom  the  ^^ welcome"  meant; 


54 


The  almond  bloom  gives  ^^hope'^  to  him 

Who  ne'er  a  wish  expressed ; 
I  cannot  read  the  purpose  dim 

That's  whispered  by  the  rest — 

I  never  studied  Mrs.  Hale — 

(I  wonder  if  he's  fair  !) 
To  me  it  seems  too  bold  a  tale^ 

(What  colour  has  his  hair  ?) 

But  sure  mamma  knows  best,  and  I 

Can  no  objection  plan, 
(I  hope  he  has  a  deep,  dark  eye !) 
Until  I  see  the  man. 

They  call  me  Heiress  of  the  Hall, 

Since  pa  and  brother  died, 
Of  manor,  park,  and  acres  all 

That  spread  so  far  and  wide ; 

And  yet  they  bid  me  marry  him, 

To  double  my  domain ! 
I  asked  if  he  were  stout  or  slim ; 

What  answer  did  I  gain  ? 

"  Pshaw,  child  !    He  owns  half  Harrowgate, 

What  matters  that  to  thee  ?" 
Instead  of  heiring  the  estate, 

The  estate  inherits  me  ! 


# 


THE     TELL-TALE     WREATH.  55 

Pve  more,  already,  than  my  share 

Of  houses  and  of  land, 
Then  why  should  I  add  care  to  care 

By  giving  up  my  hand  ? 

Since  mother  chose  the  tell-tale  wreath 

And  chose  the  lover  too, 
And  wishes  wider  room  to  hreathe, 

I'll  teU  you  what  I'll  do. 

I'll  take  the  wreath  to  ma  again, 

And  say.  Dear  ma,  as  pelf 
Makes  you  love  Harrowgate  domain, 

Do  marry  it  yourself! 


5* 


PAaUITA, 


FKOM    THE    FKKNCH. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  SPANISH  GUERILLA  WAR. 
BY  FAYETTE  ROBINSON. 

In  18 — ,  I  was  a  Lieutenant  of  Cavalry,  and  in  gar- 
rison in  a  small  city  in  the  south  of  France.  I  was 
very  young,  hut  anxious  to  imitate  the  officers  of  the 
ancient  regime,  would  have  fancied  myself  a  very  in- 
competent personage  had  I  not  engrafted  on  the  pecu- 
Har  follies  of  youth  the  inherent  faults  of  my  profession, 
I  was  mischievous  as  a  page  of  the  empire^  and  whim- 
sical as  any  other  overgrown  hoy.  In  the  words  of  the 
charte,  anxious  to  unite  the  past  and  present,  I  assumed 
with  a  pipe  all  the  airs  of  a  veteran,  which  contrasted 
strangely  enough  with  my  juvenile  air ;  I  was  I  beheve 
popular  with  my  comrades.  How  could  they  avoid 
hking  one  who  was  ready  to  ride  any  horse,  and  wil- 
Hng  to  do  the  duty  of  every  body  else,  if  he  neglected 
his  own — who,  though  never  drinking  himself,  paid 


PAQUITA.  57 

always  for  the  wine  of  his  associates — who  was  always 
ready  to  fight,  yet  ever  sought  to  adjust  the  difficulties 
of  others  ? 

Our  garrison  was  one  of  the  most  dreary  places  con- 
ceivable. Picture  to  yourself  a  city  of  eight  thousand 
inhabitants,  built  upon  the  south  side  of  a  bare  moun- 
tain, at  the  foot  of  which  ran  one  of  those  treacherous 
streams  which  in  the  summer  go  dry,  and  in  the  winter 
overflow  everything.  The  promenades  were  all  with- 
out shade ;  the  roads  were  dusty,  and  there  was  no 
society  in  the  city,  except  a  weekly  assembly  at  the 
house  of  the  maire,  to  which,  however,  I  never  heard 
of  any  officer  being  induced  to  go  twice. 

The  regiment  therefore  lived  very  much  to  itself; 
and  this  circumstance  was  no  grievance  to  me,  as  I 
then  had  no  passion  for  society,  notwithstanding  that  I 
had  full  faith  in  the  existence  of  disinterested  friendship 
— a  hallucination  to  which  military  men  are  prone. 
I  passed  my  time  in  pottering  carelessly  over  my  duty, 
in  reading  romances  which  are  not  met  with  in  family 
libraries,  in  idling  on  an  esplanade  where  grew  four 
dozen  stunted  sycamores,  or  in  long  sittings  at  the  cafe 
where,  with  a  long  pipe,  I  aped  the  manners  of  my 
superiors,  and  listened  to  the  stories  of  the  old  officers, 
about  the  almost  homeric  wars  of  the  empire. 

For  about  six  months,  I  passed  a  fife  which  monotony 
rendered,  as  it  were,  pleasant,  when  we  learned  that 


58  friendship's   offering. 

the  French  government,  at  the  instance  of  Ferdinand 
VII.,  -had  ordered  a  depot  of  Spanish  refugees,  all  of 
them  partisans  of  King  Joseph  Napoleon,  to  be  re- 
moved from  Pau,  which  they  fancied  was  too  near  the 
Pyrenees,  to  the  city  in  which  we  were  quartered. 
To  idlers  like  us,  this  was  an  event  giving  rise  to  God 
knows  how  many  idle  hopes,  for  we  knew  that  many 
of  these  refugees  were  accompanied  by  their  families. 
Those  of  the  regiment  who  treasured  up  the  recollec- 
tions of  the  Peninsular  war — speaking  continually  of 
dark-eyed  Andalusians  and  revengeful  Castilians — ^be- 
gan to  dream  of  moonlight  serenades,  bouquets  thrown 
through  jealousies,  dagger  thrusts  in  the  dark,  and 
veiled  sefioras  kneehng  on  the  floor  of  the  cathedral. 

These  things  touched  me,  in  fact,  but  sHghtly ;  but 
the  same  iriotive  which  had  induced  me  to  assume  the 
pipe  and,  parrot-like,  the  manners  of  my  superiors, 
made  me  wish  to  seem  interested  in  the  arrival  of  these 
beautiful  and  unfortunate  strangers.  One  evening, 
when  according  to  custom  we  sate  on  the  benches  of 
the  esplanade  beneath  which  passed  the  road  to  Paii, 
we  saw  in  the  distance  a  long  procession  of  carriages 
of  every  form  and  shape,  moving  slowly  towards  us. 
Men  wrapped  in  large  brown  cloaks  walked  at  the 
head  of  the  procession,  which  appeared  almost  ijirie- 
real.  "  They  are  the  refugees,  I  understand ;  they  were 
to  arrive  to-day,"  said  our  major. 


PAQUITA.  59 

We  went  at  once  to  the  edge  of  the  esplanade,  in  a 
grave  and  respectful  manner:  interest  had  replaced 
curiosity,  and  on  my  own  part,  I  remembered  that  I  too 
first  drew  breath  in  exile.  As  the  cortege  defiled  by 
us,  we  uncovered  ourselves.  The  men,  who  were  on 
foot,  saluted  us  with  an  expression  of  mingled  dignity 
and  gratitude.  The  women,  however,  shut  up  within 
the  carriages,  gave  no  token  of  existence.  We  sought 
our  quarters  with  breasts  filled  with  unwonted  emotions. 
We  pictured  to  ourselves  the  troubles  to  which  the 
strangers  would  be  exposed  in  a  foreign  land,  without 
letters  and  perhaps  without  resources,  allowed  to  pitch 
their  tents,  perhaps  but  for  a  day,  whence  they  would 
not  improbably  be  driven  off  again,  as  soon  as  they 
should  have  made  friends  and  established  acquaintances 
for  themselves. 

I  Hved  in  the  lower  part  of  the  town  in  a  house  di- 
rectly opposite  the  barracks.  The  ground  floor  was 
occupied  by  the  proprietor  and  his  family,  who  treated 
me  as  kindly  as  if  I  had  been  their  son,  and  not  their 
lodger.  The  husband  took  me  hunting  with  him,  and 
the  wife,  when  I  was  under  arrest,  came  to  chat  with  me 
in  my  rooms,  and  to  describe  to  me  the  great  charity  of 
Monseigneur  the  last  archbishop  before  the  revolution. 
Each  of  them  made  me  the  confident  of  their  affairs, 
and  never  questioned  me  about  my  own,  which,  how- 
ever, they  were  not  under  the  necessity  of  doing,  as  I 


60  friendship's   offering. 

told  them  readiljr  without  being  asked.  I  was  then 
very  young,  and  only  a  subaltern. 

On  the  evening  of  the  coming  of  the  refugees,  I  found 
Madam  Delpech  sitting  at  the  door  when  I  arrived. 
She  spoke  to  me  significantly,  and  said  :      . 

"Sir,  you  return  early  this  evening.  Have  you  by 
any  chance  been  placed  under  arrest  ?" 

I  answered,  "  No,  Madam ;  I  returned  because  the 
fortune  of  these  poor  emigrants  distressed  me." 

"  Ahy  you  saw  them !  Well ;  my  husband  has  just 
gone  to  the  Mairie  to  offer  his  ser^aces ;  you  know  we 
have  for  rent  a  little  estabhshment  at  the  end  of  the 
court  which  would  suit  a  small  family." 

"  How  much  do  you  ask  for  it  ?" 

"  That  would  depend  on  the  poverty  or  wealth  of  its 
tenants.  You  know  Delpech  and  I  are  not  avaricious : 
God,  in  giving  us  fortune  without  children,  certainly 
wished  us  to  be  kind  to  the  poor." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  speak  so.  Such  thoughts 
are  worthy  of  you — Bon  soir,  Madame T^ 

A  short  time  after  this,  a  carriage  drove  to  the  door  of 
the  house,"and  I  heard  the  worthy  landlord  speak  to 
his  wife.  I  fancied  that  I  heard  trunks  thrown  upon 
the  pavement,  and  an  unusal  noise  in  the  court  which 
led  to  the  house  of  which  Madame  Delpech  had  spoken. 
The  noise  ceased  and  I  fell  asleep ;  this,  however,  did 
not  take  place  until  late  in  the  evening. 


PAQUITA.  61 

On  the  next  morning,  when  my  servant  came  to 
awaken  me  and  to  say  that  the  hour  for  drill  was  come, 
he  told  me  that  an  old  Spanish  general  and  his  daugh- 
ter occupied  the  pavillion, 

"  Have  you  seen  them  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir;  I  helped  to  carry  in  their  baggage.  You 
will  conceive,  sir,  how  unfortunate  they  are,  when  you 
learn  that  the  old  general  is  blind,  and  the  daughter 
dumb." 

"  Do  all  you  can  to  assist  them,  and  do  not  wait 
even  for  them  to  ask  of  you  any  service.  If  they  offer 
you  a  recompense,  take  it :  the  poor  believe  themselves 
rich,  when  they  have  an  opportunity  to  be  generous—. 
let  us  not  deprive  them  of  this  gratification." 

When  the  drill  was  over,  I  asked  Madame  Delpech 
about  her  new  lodgers.  She  confirmed  all  that  my 
servant  had  said.  Madame  Delpech  appeared  inter- 
ested in  them,  and  already  was  meditating  on  some 
means  to  lessen  the  burden  of  their  misfortunes.  I  had 
two  rooms,  in  one  of  which  I  slept,  while  the  other — a 
parlor — opened  into  the  court,  which  was  handsomely 
enough  arranged  a  V*8.nglaise,  forming  a  kind  of  garden 
common  to  the  two  houses,  and  separating  them  from 
each  other,  where  the  occupants  of  both  not  unfre- 
quently  met. 

For  some  days  I  heard  nothing  of  my  neighbours. 
It  is  true  that  I  avoided  looking  out  of  the  window,  as 


02  friendship's   offering. 

they  also  seemed  to  do.  So  soon  as  I  become  aware  of 
this,  I  begged  Madame  Delpech  to  say  to  them,  that  I 
was  distressed  by  their  forbearance,  and  wished  to  be 
.  no  restraint  on  them.  They  replied  that  they  used 
ceremony  only  because  I  set  the  example,  and  that 
nothing  would  be  more  agreeable  to  them  than  to  lay 
aside  all  fasU,  provided  that  I  would  meet  them  half 
way.  , 

Before  long  I  went  into  the  garden  with  my  pipe  and 
a  book,  and  sate  beneath  a  tree  which  was  nearly  in 
its  centre.  I  remained  there  some  time  to  discharge 
my  portion  of  the  agreement,  and  then  rejoined  my 
companions  at  the  cafe.  They  sate  over  _a  bowl  of 
bishop  with  two  Spanish  officers  who  belonged  to  the 
refugees,  and  to  whom  I  was  introduced  at  once.  In 
a  short  time  we  laid  aside  all  reserve.  I  spoke  of  the 
old  general,  and  asked  if  it  was  true  that  his  daughter 
was  dumb.  The  eldest  of  the  officers  answered,  <'  the 
person  with  him  is  not  his  daughter,  but  an  angel  from 
heaven;  for  no  one  knows  whence  she  came.  The 
poor  man  needs  a  guide,  for  none  of  us  will  associate 
with  him."  ^         - 

"  Why  this  double  exile  V^  said  many  of  us  at  once. 

"  It  is  a  terrible  story,  of  which  as  far  as  possible  we 
avoid  speaking ;  but  it  will  be  well  to  make  an  exception 
of  you."  And  the  Spaniard  gave  the  following  state- 
ment.   *'  The  Chevaher  de  Colombres,  a  field  officer  of 


PAQUITA.  63 

the  Walloon  Guards,  was  Governor  of  Tolosa,  when  the 
army  commanded  by  the  Duke  of  Berg  took  possession 
of  Spain.  Having  or  believing  that  he  had  cause  of 
complaint,  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  recognise  the  new 
government,  and  devoted  himself  to  its  service  with  all 
the  zeal  of  a  new  convert.  Being  brave  and  influential, 
his  example  had  its  effect  over  a  vast  number  of  per- 
sons whom,  at  different  times,  he  had  commanded ;  and ' 
he  was  soon  enabled  to  form  a  large  Guerilla  party,  at 
the  head  of  which  he  became  the  terror  of  all  Guipus- 
coa,  and  to  his  fellow  citizens  an  object  of  horror. 
Though  not  trusted  by  your  countrymen,  his  daring 
achievements  won  for  him  a  reputation  equal  to  that  of 
our  own  most  celebrated  partisans.  The  indomitable 
peasantry  of  Spain,  who  had  withstood  the  threats  and 
efforts  of  the  greatest  captains  of  the  age,  trembled  at 
the  name  of  one  they  would  have  adored,  had  he  used 
his  talents  for  the  good  of  his  country.  The  whole 
night  would  not  suffice  for  me  to  tell  even  a  fragment 
of  his  daring  deeds — of  the  terrible  vengeance  of  a  man 
whom  Spain,  yet  curses.  I  will  select  from  the  long 
list  of  the  horrors  of  which  he  has  been  the  hero,  the 
one  which  contributes  most  to  the  unenviable  notoriety 
which  debars  him  from  our  society. 

(•<■  The  Chevaher  de  Colombres  had  an  elder  brother, 
a  member  of  the  Cortes,  and  an  officer,  also,  of  reputation 
and  merit.     The  junta  fancied  that,  if  they  sent  the 
6 


64 


Count  de  Colombres  to  Guipuscoa,  they  would  render 
the  position  of  his  brother  so  odious,  that  the  latter 
would  be  compelled  to  withdraw  into  another  province, 
where,  having  personally .  less  influence,  his  forces 
would  be  more  easily  annihilated.  They  did  so,  but 
were  grievously  disappointed.  After  many  battles,  in 
which  fortune  alternated,  the  Chevaher  would  have 
been  overcome,  had  he  not,  by  a  strange  stratagem  and 
infernal  treason,  gained  possession  of  his  brother.  *  What 
would  you  do  were  I  your  prisoner?'  asked  th€  Cheva- 
lier, when  they  met.  ^  I  would  hang  you,'  answered 
the  General  of  Ferdinand,  as  a  traitor  to  your  king  and 
country  !  *  I  will  be  mote  humane,'  repHed  the  follower 
of  King  Joseph.  '  You  shall  die  the  death  of  a  soldier.' 
Within  five  minutes,  the  Count  de  Colombres  was  shot 
behind  a  hedge  by  five  soldiers,  within  twenty  steps  of 
his  brother — 

A  movement  of  horror,  the  expression  of  which  we 
could  not  resist,  interrupted  the  Spaniard — 

<'  The  French  army  was  on  the  point  of  evacuating 
Spain,  and  with  them,  the  Chevalier  expatriated  him- 
self. We  know  not  what  he  did  or  how  he  Hved  dur- 
ing the  two  first  years  of  his  exile,  but  when  he  joined 
us  at  Pau,  he  had  become  blind,  and  his  very  life  was 
a  burden.  Too  poor  to  keep  a  servant,  and  too  much 
detested  by  his  companions  to  have  associates,  he  was 
compelled  to  seek  an  asylum  in  the  military  hospital, 


PAQUITA.  B5 

whither  the  story  of  his  crime  had  preceded  him.  In 
it  he  had  vegetated  for  many  months  in  complete  seclu- 
sion, when  the  almoner  of  the  house  came  to  say  to 
him  that  a  young  dumb  girl  wished  to  partake  of  his 
fortune,  and  place  some  resources  at  his  disposal.  No 
one  knew  who  she  was,  or  whence  she  came ;  and  the 
general,  though  he  accepted  her  services,  was  ignorant 
of  her  history  as  every  one  else  was.  She  has  been 
with  him  a  year,  and  all  have  admired  her  tenderness 
to  one  who,  but  for  her,  would  be  friendless.  You  see, 
gentlemen,  I  was  not  wrong  when  I  called  her  an  angel." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  with  impetuosity ;  "but  her  protege 
is  a  monster !  I  can  not  remain  in  the  same  house  with 
him." 

'^  Do  not  say  so,  lad,"  said  an  old  captain  who  had 
commenced  his  career  in  La  Vendee ;  "  civil  wars  make 
conscience  dull  and  crime  right,  and  give  to  cruelty  the 
appearance  of  inflexible  justice.  Let  us  pray  God  to 
spare  us  the  horror  of  a  new  revolution,  and  to  destroy 
if  possible  the  memory  of  those  which  have  been." 

"I  approve  captain  of  your  charity,  but  to  shoot  a 
brother!"  -  ' 

"You  forget  that  the  victim  would  have  hung  his 
brother!" 

"  Own  at  least  how  noble  it  would  have  been  to  have 
spared  the  count — " 


66  friendship'^   offering. 

.    "  It  would,  indeed  !  Detest  the  general,  if  you  think 
it  your  duty,  but  pity  him !" 

The  captain's  words  made  much  impression  on  me  ; 
yet,  when  I  reached  home,  I  was  still  undecided  as  to 
the  course  I  should  adopt,  but  was  rather  disposed  not 
to  form  any  association  with  the  general. 

-The  next  morning  the  story  was  still  in  my  mind, 
and  I  could  scarcely  bring  myself  to  pity  a  person  who 
had  stained  his  hands  with  the  blood  of  a  brother.  I 
imagined  him  to  be  tall,  thin,  and  stooping  in  person, 
with  a  retreating  forehead,  half  bald,  of  bihous  com- 
plexion, with  a.  hoarse  voice  and  ferocious  smile ;  in  a 
word,  hke  the  only  criminals  of  whom  I  then  knew 
ally  thing — those  of  the  melo-drama.  So  definite  was 
this  idea,  that  I  fancied  wherever  I  met  the  Chevaher 
de  Colcmbres,  I  would  know  him  ;  and  I  also  similarly 
conceived  an  idea  in  relation  to  his  young  companion, 
of  whom  I  formed  a  most  flattering  picture.  From  such 
a  revery,  I  was  arouse  by  footsteps  in  a  chamber  near 
my  own,  and  immediately  a  hght  hand  tapped  at  my 
door.  I  gave  the  answer  usual  in  such  cases,  and 
my  surprise  was  great,  when  two  persons  entered 
whom  I  recognized'  at  once  as  my  neighbours,  though 
they  did  not  in  the  least  resemble  my  fancy  sketch. 
The  Chevaher  de  Colombres  was  tall,  and  his  whole 
bearing  was  noble  and  impressive.     His  high  forehead, 


PAQUITA.  67 

calm  and  meditative,  wa&.  overshadowed  by  his  long 
hair,  which  hung  in  curls  over  his  face,  and,  white  with 
age,  gave  to  it  an  expression  of  dignity  and  mildness. 
His  eyes,  which  were  rather  obscured  than  extinguish- 
ed, still  presented  a  certain  brilliancy  proving  them  not 
absolutely  insensible  to  hght.  His  large,  but  well 
chiseled  mouth  gave  evidence  of  decision,  and  these 
two  features  were  the  only  ones  which  seemed  to  con- 
firm the  opinion  I  had  formed  of  the  general.  He  was 
led  towards  me  by  a  young  woman  remarkable  for 
nothing  but  touching  grace,  and  a  most  intellectual 
countenance. 

^'  Monsieur,"  said  the  old  Guerilla-leader,  in  a  tone 
the  sweetness  of  which  astonished  me,  so  prepared  was 
I  to  find  it  disagreeable,  '^because  I  wish  to  express 
my  gratitude  for  your  courtesy,  I  am  come  to  speak  to 
you  without  concealment."  This  circumstance,  and 
the  frankness  of  this  conduct  deranged  entirely  all  my 
plans.  I  muttered,  however,  some  meaningless  phrases 
of  politeness,  and  handed  seats  to  my  visitors. 

The  young  girl  led  the  general  to  a  chair,  and  after- 
wards stood  beside  him.  "  If  you  wish  to  leave  Pa- 
quita,  Monsieur  will  be  kind  enough  to  accompany  me 
home,  as  soon  at  least,  as  my  presence  shall  annoy 
him."  The  Chevaher  having  said  this,  moved  as  if  to 
leave.     To  this  I  could  make  no  equivocating  answer. 


6» 


&8  friendship's   offering. 

I  told  the  Chevalier  that  I  highly  appreciated  his  visit, 
as  I  spoke,  the  young  girl  left  the  room. 
.'  "Monsieur,"  said  the  general,  "I  have  come  thus 
to  see  you,  not  to  fulfil  an  empty  form,  but  because  I 
have  understCJod  that  you  have  spoken  kindly  of  me, 
and  because  I  have  thought  it  best  to  explain  to  you 
my  isolation  among  my  companions  in  exile." 

'<  I  am  aware  of  the  cause,  general ;  and  will  frankly 
own  that  it  had  iiKpired  me  with  resolutions  which  are 
much  shaken  by  the  noble  frankness  of  your  conduct. 
Have  you  l)een  calumniated  ?" 

"  If  they  told  you  that  I  ordered  the  execution  of  my 
brother,  they  have  not  spoken  falsely ;  but  they  do  me 
great  injustice  if  they  believe  I  have  since  enjoyed  one 
moment  of  repose." 

"  That  I  can  well  imagine,  without  hearing  you  say 
so." 

<^  I  thank  you  ;"  said  the  general,  with  emotion  ;  ''  I 
am  not  come  to  apologise  for  an  act  which  I  then  con- 
sidered my  duty  as  a  soldier,  but  now,  since  I  have 
learned  to  look  upon  it  as  the  world  does — as  a  crime. 
I  acknowledge  it,  because  I  think  it  better  to  brave  the 
hatred  of  men — than  to  defraud  them  of  their  esteem." 

Without  allowing  me  to  reply,  the  ChevaHer  then 
told  me  in  detail  all  the  circumstances,  not  only  of  this 
sad  affair,  but  of  others  in  which  he  .had  participated. 


PAQUITA.  69 

For  five  years,  his  life  had  been  one  series  of  melancholy- 
events,  during  the  course  of  which,  he  had  rarely  been 
able  to  act  according  to  the  dictates  of  his  judgment. 
He  described  to  me,  in  the  most  striking  terms,  the  pe- 
cuhar  traits  of  the  people  which  fancied  vengeance  a 
virtue,  and  ever  charged  the  moderate  with  apostacy. 
*i.One  party ,-^"  said  he,  '' perhaps  with  justice,  declared 
me  a  traitor  to  my  country,  and  the  other,  without  a 
cause,  suspected  my  fidelity.  On  the  field  of  battle, 
the  eyes  of  dying  men  gazed  on  me  with  hatred ;  and 
in  the  tents  of  my  companions,  the  most  polished  words 
seemed  always  the  covert  vehicles  of  reproach  and  con- 
tempt. On  the  day  after  the  death  of  my  brother,  I 
was  as  much  suspected  as  I  had  previously  been.  I 
knew  they  said  among  themselves,  '  He  is  a  Spaniard, 
and  all  that  he  has  done  proves  nothing.'  " 

The  Chevaher  spoke  for  two  hours,  without  my 
thinking  once  of  interrupting  him,  and  without  uttering 
a  single  word  which  betrayed  the  least  intention  of 
lessening  the  magnitude  of  his  crime.  I  was  interested 
in  the  highest  degree  by  this  confession ;  and  soon, 
from  mere  interest,  there  arose  a  feeling  of  compassion. 

The  Chevaher  continued,  "  I  have  wished  to  explain 
every  thing  to  you,  sir,  that  you  too  may  abandon  the 
outlaw  if  you  judge  him  unworthy  of  pity.  And  now, 
sir,  I  am  ready  to  return  to  my  own  lodgings.  Will 
you  have  the  kindness  to  lead  me  a&  far  as  my  door  ? 


70  friendship's   offering. 

If  hot,  be  pleased  to  show  me  yours,  and  I  will  feel  my 
way  home  by  the  wall. 

"You  may  do  a  third  thing,  general,  if  you  prefer 
it  to  the  two  you  have  pointed  out,"  said  I,  seating  him 
again  in  his  chair.  *<  Remain  a  few  minutes  longer, 
and  I  will  speak  of  gentler  affairs  than  your  own  sad 
story."  His  acknowledgments  were  at  once  warm  and 
dignified,  and,^at  the  same  time,  expressed  the  feehngs 
of  one  who  receives  an  unexpected  favour,  and  the  ac- 
knowledgment of  a  man  of  the  world  for  an  agreeable 
civility. 

"  Suffer  me,"  said  he,  "to  be  touched  by,  and  to 
acknowledge  the  kindness  of  your  invitation.  Let  me 
tell  you,  however,  though  I  am  not  astonished  at  it — 
that  you  would  be  less  kind  were  you  not  so  young."- 

"  Does  youth  only  account  for  kindness  ?" 

"At  your  age,  one  is  naturally  doubtful  of  the  exist- 
ence of  crime :  later,  we  learn  that  it  exists,  but  forget 
how  to  pardon  it.  Men  atone  for  their  own  faults,  by 
stifling  mercy  for  those  of  others.  But  let  us  speak  of 
yourself,  since'  you  have  promised  to  talk  of  more 
agreeable  things." 

The  old  general  spoke  to  me,  with  rare  address  and 
charming  dehcacy,  of  my  family,  my  country,  my  past 
life,  my  tastes ;  in  fine,  of  every  thing  which  could  in- 
terest me.  I  replied  to  his  questions  with  frankness  and 
freedom,  and  afterwards  spoke  of  his  young  companion. 


PAQUITA.  71 

''  I  know,"  he  said,  ''  no  more  of  her  than  you;  for  I 
take  it  for  granted  that  they  who  spoke  of  me  to  you, 
also  told  you  that,  during  my  residence  at  Pau,  the 
almoner  of  the  establishment  offered  ttie  the  eyes  of  one 
of  my  compatriots,  in  return  for  my  voice.  I  accepted 
the  .offer,  because  I  believed  that,  by  the  aid  of  Paquita, 
through  God's  mercy,  I  would  be  less  unhappy.  She 
came  at  once  and  took  me  home  with  her.  Since  then 
she  has  never  left  me." 

'^  Have  you  not  sought  to  find  out  who  she  is  ?" 

''  How  could  I  do  so  ?  I  am  alone  with  her,  and  she 
can  answer  no  questions.  Why,  though,  should  I  seek 
to  penetrate  a  mystery  which  Providence  evidently  in- 
tends for  my  good  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that  I  know  a 
-guardian  angel  is  ever  by  me  ?" 

For  some  time  we  spoke  like  old, acquaintances,;  and 
when  the  general  arose  to  take  my  arm,  that  I  might 
lead  him  to  his  own  apartments^,  he  pressed  it  in  grati- 
tude, Paquita  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  door.  I  re- 
turned to  my  quarters,  as  you  may  fancy, — with  my 
feelings  much  altered  from  what  they  were,  when  I  first 
heard  the  general's  story.  My  association  with  him 
became  every  dhj  more  intimate,  and  finally  I  passed 
with  him  all  my  leisure  time.  To  me,  his  conversation 
had  an  irresistible  charm ;  the  depth  of  his  repentance 
inspired  me  with  an  interest  which  soon  assumed  all 
the  characteristics  of  friendship.     Paquita,  who  always 


72  friendship'^  -offering. 

disappeared  when  she  thought  her  presence  unneces- 
sary, was  rarely  with  us ;  and  I  too  began  to  look  up'on 
her  as  a  spiritual  personage— so  much  so,  that  I 
ceased  almost  to  speak  to  her  as  she  glided  by  me. 
Early  in  the  winter,  the  Chevalier  became  ill  with 
pleurisy ;  and  as  I  saw  that  he  was  indifferent  to  suffer- 
ing, I  thought  it  my  duty  to  bring  the  regimental  sur- 
geon to  "see  him.  He  was  at  first  unwilling  to  take  any 
remedies,  but  at  my  persuasion,  finally  consented. 
Thanks  to  the  kindness  of  M.  Duriviere,  (thus  was  our 
good  doctor  called,)  my  friend  recovered.  One  evening 
the  room  was  lighted  by  only  a  single  small  .lamp,  and 
the  doctor  had  occasion  to  ask  for  another,  to  examine 
more  accurately  the  condition  of  his  patient.  Paquita 
brought  one  ;  and  when  it  was  placed  before  the  Che- 
valier, both  the  doctor  and  I  observed  that  it  affected  his 
eyes,  which  had  been  thought  to  be  dimmed  for  ever. 

When  the  general  had  become  entirely  well,  I  asked 
him  to  breakfast  with  me,  and  invited  the  doctor  to 
meet  him.  Some  conversation  ensued,  and  never  be- 
fore had  my  unfortunate  friend  appeared  to  so  great  an 
advantage.  He  seemed  thankful  even  for  the  restora- 
tion of  his  health ;  though  to  him,  Hfe  had  long  been  a 
burden.  The  doctor  said,  in  replying  to  him,  "I  am 
happy,  general,  to  have  been  so  far  of  service  to  you, 
but  shall  be  far  better  pleased  to  restore  you  your  sight 
-i-than  which,  I  am  sure  nothing  would  be  easier,  were 


PAQUITA.  73 

you  to  consent  to  a  slight  operation,  which  is  without 
danger,  and  will  subject  you  to  but  little  pain." 
-    <'I  fear  neither  dapger  nor  pain,  doctor;  but  I  have 
become  used  to  my  situation.    The  loss  of  sight  is  not  a 
severe  privation  to  an  outcast,  such  asl  am." 

''Remember,",  said  I,  "some  day  or  other  your 
exile  may  cease ;  and  what  pleasure  you  will  lose  if 
you  then  be  unable  to  behold  that  country  for  which 
you  have  made  such  sacrifices  !" 

"  I  have  no  country,  my  friend,  and  therefore  do  not 
need  my  eyes.  Even  were  I  to  receive  a  pardon,  I 
should  not  return  to  Spain."  - 

"  I  do  not  press  you  to  submit  yourself  to  an  opera- 
tion ;"  remarked  the  doctor,  "but  should  you  change 
your  intention,  remember  I  am  at  your  service."  The 
general  thanked  him  kindly,  but  sought  to  give  another 
direction'  tg  the.,  conversation.  The  doctor  soon  after 
left  us.  When  the  chevaher  and  I  were  alone,  I  asked 
him  why  he  refused  a  thing  which,  even  if  indifferent 
to  him,  would  be  so  gratifying  to  me,  and  would  so 
dehght  Paquita. 

"Because,"  he  replied,  "I  suffer  a  punishment 
hnposed  on  me  by  divine  wrath,  in  consequence  of 
which,  men  have  lost  the  right  to  molest  me.  Though 
for  three  years  I  have  been  blind,  I  have  always  been 
aware  that  the  affliction  might  be  remedied,  and  am 


74 


FRIENDSHIP  S  .OFFERING. 


grateful  to  heaven  for  having  thus  placed  an  expiation 
in  my  powet."      ,  ^ 

^^  General,"  replied  I — amazed  at  the  grandeur  of  his 
penance^  and  with  the  conviction  of  crime  which  in- 
spired him- — f^  you  have  suffered  long  enough,  and  now 
that  you  have  the  advice  of  the  doctor,  perhaps  you 
should  consult  some  reveren^  jnan,  tq  learn  if,  in  his 
opinion,  your  perseverance  is  not  an  outrage  on  divine 
mercy,  and  a  sacrifice  to  human  pride." 

"  Your  arguments,  my  young  friend,"  he  repHed, 
<' awake  in  my  breast  much  trouble.  Is  it  certain, 
however,  that  if  God  has  pardoned  me, -it  is  presumption 
longer  to  punish  myself?" 

"  You  should  not  have  entertained  a  doubt  about  it, 
from  the  day  God  sent  you- an  angel  to  guide  and  con- 
sole you." 

.<^But  should  I  lose  Paquita  after  having  regained 
my  sight,  which  her  care  renders  almost  unimportant 
to  me  ?" 

^'  It  would  be  but  one  other  proof  of  your  obedience 
to  the  will  of  heaven." 

'^Listen,  my  young  friend,"  said  the  general,  in  an 
animated  tone.  "Heaven  is  my  witness,  that,  for 
myself,  I  never  wish  again  to  see  that  earth  which  I 
have  moistened  with  the  blood  of  a  brother ;  but  I  will 
consent  to  one  trial,  and  if  it  should  confirm  ypu  in  the 


PAQUITA.  75 

opinion  that  I  should  consent  to  the  operation,  I  will 
not  resist.  Tell  Paquita  what  the  doctor  says,  and  I 
will  act  as  she  may  wish  me." 

In  five  minutes  Paquita  was  by  the  general's  side, 
and  I  looked  carefully  into  her  countenance. 

"My  child,"  said  he,  "the  doctor  who  so  kindly 
visited  me  during  my  illness,  thinks  he  can  restore  my 
sight, — what  do  you  wish  me  to  do  ?" 

Paquita  fell  upon  her  knees  with  her  hands  raised  to 
heaven,  and  her  lips  half  open,  as  though  she  would 


"  She  is  an  angel,"  said  I. 

"  You  will  not  leave  me,  even  if  I  regain  my  sight  ?" 
asked  the  general,  in  great  anxiety. 

Paquita  kissed  again  and  again  the  hand  of  the  exile. 

"My  friend,"  said  h.e,  "say  to  the  doctor  that  I 
await  his  pleasure." 

The  doctor  decided  that  after  a  preparatory  treatment 
of  a  few  days,  the  operation  should  be  performed  on 
the  next  Sunday.  The  intervening  time  was  passed 
by  the  old  general  with  a  kindly  bearing,  not  unhke 
utter  resignation.  Before  Paquita  he  was  silent,  but 
when  she  was  absent  he  regretted  having  given  his 
consent,  and  expressed  a  wish  that  the  operation  might 
be  unsuccessful. 

"  You  will  have  a  proof,"  said  he,  that  God  has  not 
pardoned  me  yet." 

7 


76  friendship's    offerixg. 

"On  the  contrary,  you  will  be  convinced  that  He  has 
done  ao  long  ago,"  said  I. 

"Well,  my  friend,  let  His  will  be  done." 

The  day  fixed  for  the  operation  came.  I  aAvaited  it, 
you  may  conceive,  with  great  impatience,  and  I  went 
to  call  upon  the  chevalier  some  minutes  before  the  time 
fixed  for  the  arrival  of  the  doctor. 

The  general  was  placed  in  a  large  arm-chair  opposite 
the  window.  His  clasped  hands  and  melancholy  ex- 
pression, more  melancholy  even  than  usual,  announced 
that  he  was  plunged  in  a  meditation  which  could  be 
but  prayer.  Paquita'  was  kneehng  before  him  with  a 
countenance  radiant  with  joyous  hope. 

"It  is  a  happy  day  for  your  friends,"  said  I  to  the 
general.     In  silence  he  clasped  my  hand. 

"You  know  that  when  the  operation  is  over,"  said 
I,  "  your  eyes  will  be  covered  with  a  bandage,  the 
thickness  of  which  will  be  gradually  decreased,  in  order 
that  you  may  become  accustomed  to  the  fight." 

"When  I  shall  have  seen  Paquita,  yourself,  and  the 
sun,  I  will  be  patient,"  he  repfied,  with  a  sad  smile. 

Then  his  forehead  grew  dark  suddenly,  and  extend- 
ing his  hand  to  Paquita,  who  was  still  at  his  feet,  he 
said,  "  I  had  rather  hear  her  voice  than  see  unimagin- 
able wonders."  Paquita  looked  at  me  with  a  significance 
which  I  did  not  understand. 

The  doctor  just  then  entered,  and  my  whole  atten- 


PAQUITA. 


77 


tion  was  concentrated  on  his  arrangements,  which  were 
soon  completed.  Silently  and  kindly,  the  good  doctor 
placed  the  patient  in  a  suitable  position,  and  gave  me 
some  indispensible  instruments  to  hand  to  him  at  the 
proper  moment. 

Quickly  Durivi^re  operated;  but  the  five  or  six 
minutes  he  was  engaged  seemed  as  many  centuries. 
The  general  sate  voiceless  and  motionless,  as  though  he 
were  of  stone. 

"All  is  over,"  said  the  doctor,  "  can  you  see  ?" 

The  general  turned  his  eyes  on  Paquita  and  fainted. 

"  He  has  seen  me !"  burst  from  the  Hps  of  Paquita. 

The  doctor  looked  around  in  astonishment.  He 
could  scarcely  beheve  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses. 
As  for  myself,  I  was  scarcely  less  astounded. 

The  doctor  at  length  said,  "  There  is  some  mystery 
here,"  and  resumed  his  habitual  sang-froid.  He  took 
advantage  however  of  the  opportunity  to  place  on  the 
general  the  bandages  he  would  be  required  to  wear  for 
some  days. 

The  ChevaHer  de  Colombres  sopn  recovered,  and  said, 
<*  Take  off  this  veil !  take  it  off!  let  me  see  her  again, 
and  then  I  will  die !" 

<<  Be  calm,  general,"  said  Duriviere,  «'all  you  have 
seen  once  you  will  see  again." 

«One  of  God's  own  saints  has  watched  over  me," 
said  the  exile.     "  It  is  Bernadina,  the  only  child  of  my 


78  friendship's   offering. 

murdered  brother.  Now,  at  last,  I  see  that  God  has 
pardoned  me.  But  where  are  you,  my  child?  Lean 
on  my  bosom." 

"  I  am  at  your  feet,"  said  she,  '^  where  I  give  thanks 
to  that  God  who  has  heard  my  prayers.  Forgive  me, 
uncle ;  I  sought  you  to  avenge  my  father's  de'ath,  but, 
from  your  penitence,  I  have  learned  mercy.  God  is 
with  us.     I  am  no  longer,  nor  are  you  an  exile." 

In  1822  a  decree  of  the  Cortes  recalled  to  Spain  all 
refugees. 

In  1823,  when  King  Ferdinand  returned  to  Madrid, 
Bemadina  de  Colombres  asked  for  the  pardon  of  the 
chevalier,  on  account  of  her  father's  services. 

"Ask  it,  Senora,  on  accourit  of  your  own  virtues," 
repHed  the  king.  "To  reward  you,  I  appoint  your 
uncle  Governor  of  Coruna. 

The  Chevalier  de  Colombres  died  recently  in  that 
city,  at  a  very  advanced  age.  Bemadina  never  left 
him.  "^ 


LEOLINE. 

BY  MRS.  EMILY  G.  GOODWIN  BARCLAY. 

Tender  as  bird  in  parent  nest, 

Shielded  with  care ; 

Leohne  ! 

Soft  as  the  down  on  cygnet's  breast 

As  snow-flake  fair ; 

Jjeoline ! 

Brilliant,  as  gems  of  purest  water 
Thine  azure  eyes,. 
Leoline ! 
Oh !  art  thou  not  some  lovely  daughter 
Of  Paradise?  ^      -    ^ 

Leoline ! 

Shading  thy  spiritual  brow. 
Soft  golden  hair, 
Leoline ! 
7* 


80  friendship's   offering. 

Falls  like  a  veil  around  thee  now. 
Then  floats  in  air, 
LeoHne ! 

Art  thou  a  star,  for  our  devotion 
Visiting  earth? 
Leoline ! 
Or,  did  the  coral  caves  of  ocean 
Witness  thy  birth  ? 
LeoHne ! 

Wert  thou  of  rosy  dew  cloud  born  ? 
Or  silver  rain  ? 
Leoline  !   -' 
Didst  thou  the  rainbow's  arch,  adorn 
Spanning  the  main, 
LeoHne ! 

Celestial  visitant  to  earth  ! 
Sure  thou  must  be, 
LeoHne ! 
For  never  maid  of  mortal  birth, 
Was  aught  like  thee, 
LeoHne ! 


IMMORAL     ESSAYS. 

BY  LEITCH  RITCHIE. 

PRIENDSfilP. 

Of  all  popular  delusions  there  is  none  so  unaccount- 
able as  that  which  relates  to  Friendship.  It  is  a  delu- 
sion of  the  few  as  well  as  the  many — of  the  learned  as 
well  as  the  ignorant ;  and  far  from  being  one  of  those 
Superficial  mistakes  at  which  Philosophy  can  afford  to 
smile,  it  is  a  fatal  error  at  which  all  mankind  have  daily 
cause  to  weep*  The  follies  and  dangers  of  Love  are  a 
favourite  theme  of  the  satirists,  and  of  those  expounders 
of  moral  science  whom  the  vulgar  call  romancers  ;  but 
few  there  be  who  have  obtained  even  a  ghmpse  of  the 
true  character  -  of  Friendship.  Suspicion,  indeed,  seems 
here  and  there  to  have  insinuated  itself  into  the  world, 
hke  a  sudden  flash  of  hght  that  is  soon  lost  in  the  sur- 
rounding darkness.  "  Heaven  defend  me  from  my 
friends  !"  cried  pne  of  the  advanced  spirits  of  his  age — 
<'I  can  defend  myself  from  my  enemies!"     But  the 


82 


startling  heresy  had  only  a  momentary  effect.  The 
people  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it,  and  therefore 
set  it  down  among  the  miscellanea  as  a  jeu  d'esprit, 
and  clapped  their  hands  and  laughed ;  and  the  roman- 
cers went  on,  as  usual,  to  describe  the  mischiefs  of 
Friendship  as  mere  exceptions  to  a  golden  rule,  and  the 
poets  to  paint  it  as  the  choicest  boon  conferred  by  Pro- 
vidence upon  the  human  race. 

The  extraordinary  thing  is,  that  this  delusion  con- 
tinues to  exist,  in  spite  of  the  daily  experience  of  man- 
kind. If,  for  instance,  you  see  a  gentleman  kindly 
supported  to  the  station-house  between  two  policemen, 
his  knees  bending  under  him,  his  feet  meeting  at  the 
toes  instead  of  the  heels,  his  hat  knocked  in  on  one 
side,  the  pockets  of  his  nameless  garment  turned  out, 
and  one  solitary  coat  tail  danghng  behind  in  disconso- 
late rags,  as  if  it  mourned  the  loss  of  its  fellow — what 
is  his  answer  to  the  questions  of  the  constable  of  the 
night?  ^         .    -         • 

"  How  came  you  into  this  pickle  ?", 

"With  great  pleasure — hiccup — 'When  Britain  first 
at  hea — a — a — .'  " 

<'  Silence  !  Give  some  account  of  yourself." 

"  Hip — ip — ip— hurrah  !  Keep  it  up  !" 

"  Where  have  you  been,  I  say  ?" 

f' '  Where  have  I  been !'  Seeing  my  friends,  to  be 
sure  ?'* 


IMMORAL     ESSAYS.  CW 

f'  O,  that  accounts  for  it !" 

Perhaps  on  this  occasion  the  gentleman  has  trans- 
acted a  little  business,  in  consequence  of  which  we  find 
him  in  a  few  months  under  lock  and  key  in  a  more 
formidable  station-house.  On  getting  out  of  the  cab 
which  takes  him  thither  from  the  sponging-house,  he 
falls  in  with  a  quondam  companion  with  a  week's 
beard,  a  penny  cuba,  and  apparently  the  same  desti- 
nation. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  my  boy,'*  says  the  latter — ^'  what 
are  you  in  for?" 

*<  Accepting  a  bill  for  a  friend,  that's  all." 

"  Precisely  my  case — a  happy  coincidence^' 

"  Let  us  be  chums  then.  Don't  you  go  this  way  ?" 
pointing  to  the  Debtor's  side. 

"  No :  our  position  is  a  little  different.  In  accepting 
your  friend's  bill,  you  wrote  your  own  name,  and  I 
wrote  his — so  I  am.  for  t'other  side.     Good  bye  !" 

Having  taken  the  benefit  of  the  insolvency  act,  the 
gentleman  returns  home,  and  on  going  in,  finds  that  his 
wife  has  gone  off — of  course  with  one  of  his  friends. 
The  fortunate  man,  however,  has  still  a  friend  in  re- 
serve to  whom  he  flies  for  counsel  on  the  occasion.  At 
an  early  hour  the  next  morning  he  is  seen  crossing  a 
field,  led  by  this  good  angel ;  and  by  and  bye  is  brought 
back  to  the  nearest  public  house,  upon  a  shutter.  His 
two  friends  go  off  for  Germany  in  the  same  post-chaise ; 


84 


and  his  widow,  having  lost- her /nenc?,  contracts  a 
friendship  for  the  brandy  bottle  instead,  which  speedily 
introduces  her  into  the  world  of  spirits. 

It  is  strange,  but  true^,  thLt  women  are  more  indeh- 
cate  in  their  friendship  than  men.  A  man  may  con- 
fide the  fact  to  his  male  confidant  that  he  loves,  but  if 
he  be  a  man  of  honour,  he  will  rather  submit  to  be 
torn  to  pieces,  than  breathe  a  syllable  that  would  com- 
promise her,  A  woman,  on  the  other  hand,  betrays 
every  look  and  word  of  her  lover  to  her  friend.  She 
speculates  on  the  change  of  his  feehngs  from  sentiment 
into  passion,  exhibits  his  letters,  and  in  short,  does  her 
best  to  «nake  him  ridiculous  and  herself  miserable. 
But  this  is  not  her  fault — it  is  her  nature.  A  woman 
is  as  honourable  as  a  man,  but  the  point  of  honour  is 
different  in  the  two  sexes ;  and  it  is  so  because  it  seems 
to  be  the  fate  of  the  himian  race  to  have  their  happi- 
ness destroyed  by  friendship.  Her  confidant  perhaps 
loves  the  same  man  herself,  or  her  confidant's  confidant, 
or  some  other  link  in  the  chain  of  confidence  ;  and  the 
result  is  treachery,  jealousy,  heart-burnings,  falsehood, 
broken  promises,  and  broken  hearts. 

Let  us  hear  no  more  of  the  virtue  of  this  gigantic 
vice,  which  is  the  cause  of  nine-tenths  of  the  unhappi- 
ness  of  mankind.  Let  us  paint  friendship  as  it  is,  not 
as  it  ought  to  be,  and  fly  no  longer  in  the  face  both  of 
reason  and  Scripture.     Ay,  of  Scripture :  for  although 


IMMORAL     ESSAYS.  85 

desired  therein  to  love  our  enemies,  it  would  be  vain 
to  search  for  any  command  to  love  our  friends. 

LOVE .  AND   MAilTlIAGE. 

Can  Love  more  than  Friendship  be  considered  any- 
thing else  than  a  delusion,  when  the  object  is  imagi- 
nary^ however  real  may  be  the  passion  ?  It  is  not  a 
creature  of  flesh  and  blood  we  love,  but 

The  angel  form  that  always  walked 

In  all  our  dreams,  and  looked  and  talked 

Exactly  like  Miss  Brown. 

As  for  Miss  Brown  herself,  it  would  be  rank  incon- 
stancy to  love  her  two  years  running,  for  she  is  not  the 
same  Miss  Brown.  Not  a  particle  even  of  her  substan- 
tial bulk  remains.  The  lips  you  hung  on  so  fondly 
are  almost  as  evanescent  as  the  flower  to  which  you 
liken  them.  The  materials  of  the  waist  you  encircled 
lafet  year  with  such  rapture  are  by  this  time  diffused 
throughout  the  general  composition  of  the  universe. 
She  is  different  even  to  the  eye.  She  has  grown  fatter, 
and,  at  the  time  you  swore  eternal  constancy,  that  su- 
perficial layer  did  not  form  the  visible  outline  of  Miss 
Brown,  but  existed  in  a  thousand  different  animals  and 
plants  you  know  nothing  about.  The  Miss  Brown  of 
your  love  was  four  feet  eleven  inches  and  a  half ;  this 
one  is  five  feet  and  half  an  inch.     It  is  absurd,  there- 


86  friendship's   offering. 

fore,  to  say  that  it  is  the  person  of  Miss  Brown  you 
love. 

But  it  is  still  niore  absurd  to  talk  of  her  mental 
qualities  as  the  objects  of  your  attachment ;  for  these 
never  existed  at  all,  except  in  your  imagination.  If 
you  doubt  this,  marry  her ;  convert  Miss  Brown  into 
Mrs.  Smith,  and  you  will  'find  that  the  moral  dowry 
you  imagined  had  made  you  so  rich,  resembles  those 
fairy  treasures  that  are  changed  into  withered  leaves. 
This  transformation,  however,  does  inot  take  place  sud- 
denly, or  you  would  go  mad.  Day  after  day,  month 
after  month,  unwinds  some  charm,  till,  when  these 
Egyptian  folds  are  all  cast  off,  you  arrive  insensibly  at 
the  caput  mortuum  beneath. 

But  you  have  no  right  to  complain  of  Mrs.  Smith  on 
this  consummation,  for  the  fault  was  yours,  not  hers. 
It  was  not  her  you  loved,  but  yourself.  The  ''angel 
form"  was  a  portion  of  your  own  imagination;  the 
divine  qualities  were  part  and  parcel  of  your  own 
idiosyncrasy.  Your  admiration  proceeded  from  vanity. 
Your  love  was  self-idolatry.  The  idea  that  man  and 
wife  are  one  is  strictly  philosophical,  but  it  is  a  mistake 
to  suppose  that  it  is  the  ceremony  of  marriage  which 
makes  them  so.  They  were  one  previously,  or  they 
would  not  have  been  married  at  all — Miss  Brown  was 
a  portion  of  your  identity  or  she  never  would  have  be- 
come Mrs^  Smith. 


IMMORAL     ESSAYS.  87 

This  theory  explains  what  would  otherwise  be  inex- 
plicable, the  ill-assorted  marriages  which  are  the  subject 
of  so  much  imbecile  astonishment.  An  accomplished 
man  commits  his  fate  to  an  ignorant  Woman — a  woman 
of  refined  sentiments  entrusts  her  happiness  to  the 
keeping  of  a  man  of  mere  instinct, — and  all  tjiis  often 
without  any  compulsion  arising  from  circumstances  of 
fortune  or  station.  The  explanation  is,  that  the  accom- 
plished man,  a  victim  to  the  illusions  of  passion,  invests 
his  mistress  with  his  own  accomplishments,  and  the 
refined  woman  her  lover  with  her  own  refinement,  and 
their  union  takes  place  through  mere  mistake.  Per- 
sonal beauty,  in  like  manner,  is  united  to  deformity — 
for  there  is  no  limit  to  the  power  of  this  enchantment, 
— and  thus  Miss  Brown  never  finds  out,  till  some 
months  after  the  wedding,  that  what  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  call  the  engaging  cast  in  Mr.  Smith's 
eye  is  a  downright  and  hideous  squint. 

Tastes  have  their  revolutions  as  well  as  fashions, 
although  they  may  have  a  wider  orbit.  If  you  love 
your  mistress  for  her  sentiment,  her  moonlight  walks, 
her  passion  for  poetry,  is  it  consistent  with  reason — nay 
with  constancy — to  continue  to  love  her  when  she  cries 
*<  fudge  !"  as  often  as  Mr.  Burchell,  doats  upon  candle- 
light and  cards,  and  reads  nothing  with  interest  but  the 
book  of  fashions?  If  it  was  her  downcast  eyes  that 
betrayed  your  heart,  her  exquisitely  slender  waist,  her 
8 


88  friendship's    offering. 

interesting  delicacy  of  nerves,  will  you  stultify  yourself 
by  loving  her  still  vrhen  she  stares  you  in  the  face  as 
unblushingly  as  an  attorney,  when  it  takes  your  two 
arms  to  clasp  her  round,  when  she  marches  through 
the  miseries  of  the  world  like  a  dragoon  on  a  battle- 
field? 

Then,  are  there  no  blissful  courtships,  and  no  fortu- 
nate marriages  ?  A  few.  Let  us  not  forget  that  the 
change  described  above  takes  place  in  both  parties.  If 
Mr.  Smith  still  lingers  in  his  moonhght  walks  with  the 
angel  form  of  Miss  Brown,  after  the  said  Miss  Brown, 
vulgarised  into  Mrs.  Smith,  sits  down  to  her  cards  and 
candle-light,  the  union  will  be  unhappy ;  but  if  on  the 
contrary  Mr.  S.  is  fortunate  enough  to  get  a  Httle 
twinge  of  rheumatism,  which  gives  him  a  distaste  for 
the  romance  of  evening,  and  inclines  him  rather  to  be- 
stow his  legs  under  the  mahogany  till  Mrs.  S.  sends 
for  him  twice,  you  may  assume  with  tolerable  certainty 
that  they  are  a  happy  couple.  Some  wedded  pairs  are 
praised  for  their  constancy,  occasioned  by  similarity  of 
tastes,  whereas  the  whole  secret  lies  in  their  conformity 
in  change.  If  these  great  truths  were  generally  under- 
stood, the  single  would  not  hesitate  so  long  as  they 
sometimes  do  about  giving  away  their  hearts  and 
hands,  convinced  as  they  would  be  that  we  can  only 
answer  for  the  present,  and  that  no  human  foresight 
can  penetrate  the  future ;  while  the  married,  instead  of 


IMMORAL     ESSAYS.  89 

talking  nonsense  about  "  incompatibility,"  would  hu- 
mour  one  another's  changes  of  tastes  and  tempers,  and 
trundle  their  canisters  with  patience,  if  not  good  hu- 
mour. In  fine,  your  grand  consolation  is,  that  the 
object  of  your  love  was  from  the  first  an  imaginary  one, 
and  you  should  not  be  so  silly  as  to  grieve  for  ascertain- 
ing, by  personal  experience,  a  philosophical  truth.  " 


NIGHT. 

BY    JOHN    MALCOLM,    ESQ. 

Come,  solemn  Night,  and  spread  thy  pail 

Wide  o'er  the  slumbering  shore  and  sea,— 
And  hang  along  thy  vaulted  hall 

The  star-lights  of  eternity  ; — 
Thy  beacons,  beautiful  and  bright, — 

Isles  in  the  ocean  of  the  blest, — 
That  guide  the  parted  spirit's  flight 

Unto  the  land  of  rest. 

Come — for  the  evening  glories  fade, 

Cluenched  in  the  ocean's  depths  profound ; 
Come  with  thy  solitude  and  shade, — 

Thy  silence  and  thy  sound ; — 
Awake  the  deep  and  lonely  lay 

From  wood  and  stream,  of  saddening  tone  ;- 
The  harmonies  unheard  by  day, — 

The  music  ail  thine  own ! 


NIGHT.  91 

And  with  thy  starry  eyes  that  weep 

Their  silent  dews  on  flower  and  tree, 
My  heart  shall  solemn  vigils  keep — 

My  thoughts  converse  with  thee  ;— 
Upon  whose  glowing  page  expand 

The  revelations  of  the  sky ; — 
Which  knowledge  teach  to  every  land. 

Of  man's  high  destiny. 

For  while  thy  mighty  orbs  of  fire 

(So  "  wildly  bright"  they  seem  to  live) 
Feel  not  the  beauty  they  inspire. 

Nor  see  the  hght  they  give ; 
Even  I,  an  atom  of  the  earth, 

Itself  an  atom  'midst  the  frame 
Of  nature— can  inquire  their  birth, 

And  ask  them  whence  they  came. 

And  oh !  ye  stars,  whose  distant  bowers 

Repose  beneath  the  glowing  Hghts 
Of  other  suns  and  moons  than  ours— 

Of  other  days  and  nights  ; — 
Have  sin  and  sorrow  wandered  o'er 

Each  far — unknown — untravelled  bourne, — 
Have  ye,  too,  partings  on  the  shore. 

That  never  know  return ! 
8* 


92  friendship's    offering. 

And  eyes  as  here,  that  wake  and  weep 

O'er  vanished  joys  and  faded  blooms ; 
And  beams  that  (as  in  mockery)  sleep 

O'er  dim  and  mouldering  tombs  ;— 
And  hopes,  that  for  a  moment  weave 

Their  rainbow  glories  o'er  the  mind, — 
Then  melt  in  darkening  clouds,  and  leave 

But  Memory's  tears  behind. 

Vain  guesses  all — and  all  unknown 

To  what  Creation's  wonders  tend, — 
A  mighty  vision  sweeping  on 

To  some  mysterious  end ; — 
Yet  not  in  vain,  these  thoughts  that  steal 

Through  time  and  space — from  earth  to  sky ; 
For  they  with  still,  small  voice  reveal 

Our  immortahty ! 


nEl^lhlWHE. 


V  Inl  -f;     ili^  AL  T  II  IL  t^     If  J 


■dl 


4^ 


THE    BATTLE    FIELD. 


BY    THE    EDITOR. 

"  Oh,  glorious  laurel !  since  for  one  sole  leaf 
Of  thine  imaginary  deathless  tree. 
Of  blood  and  tears  must  flow  the  unebbing  sea." 

"  Not  so  Leonidas  and  Washington, 
Whose  every  battle  field  is  holy  ground. 
Which  breathes  of  nations  saved— not  worlds  undone." 

^' Arm  for  the  combat !  our  foemen  advance  j 
Rush  to  the  hehnet,  the  sabre,  and  lance ; 
Spring  to  the  saddle  and  welcome  the  storm, 
Tamers  of  desert  steeds, — Form,  brothers,  form  ! 
Little  reck  we  of  the  cause  or  the  end ; 
Ours  is  to  fight, — and  let  statesmen  contend 
Which  side  the  dark  claims  of  justice  belong : 
Strike  for  our  country,  in  right  or  in  wrong ! 
Hark  !  how  their  bugle-notes,  shrill,  wild,  high, 
Echo  around  us  from  mountain  to  sky  ; 
Nearer,  and  nearer,  and  nearer  they  come, 
With  the  tramp  of  steed  and  the  roll  of  the  drum. 


96  friendship's   offering. 

Who  dare  face  such  an  army  as  ours, 
Steeled  by  the  north-wind  its  sinewy  powers  ? 
Each  one  is  sworn  to  remain  on  the  field, 
Victor  or  vanquished,  but  never  to  yield. 
Soon  shall  the  boast  of  the  southerner  fail, 
Trembhng  and  chilled  by  the  touch  of  the  gale. 
Dares  he  to  beard  the  fierce  sons  of  the  Don  ? 
Lo,  he  is  coming !  then  on,  brothers,  on  !" 

Such  are  the  shouts  as  the  sun  rises  high, 
Cossack  and  Muscovite  gathering  nigh — 
Frank  and  Itahan, — all  eager  for  fray  ; 
Far  gleam  the  lines  in  their  splendid  array. 
Then  comes  a  pause,  deep,  breathless,  and  still. 
Calm  sleep  their  shadows  on  valley  and  hill. 
Listen  !  the  boom  of  the  foemen's  first  gun — 
"Onward  !  no  rest  till  the  battle  is  won  !" 
Loud  roars  the  cannon's  deep  thunder,  and  soon 
Sounds  through  the  valley  the  rattling  platoon. 
Broad  o'er  the  field,  with  the  gloom  of  the  shroud, 
Sways  in  wild  billows  the  sulphurous  cloud. 
Then  come  the  groans  of  the  wounded  that  bleed. 
Then  comes  the  neigh  of  the  agonized  steed. 
"Charge  !"  and  they  close  in  the  furious  strife. 
None  cry  for  quarter,  the  game  is  for  life. 
Deadher  the  battle-din  swells  on  the  ear. 
Clangs  the  sharp  sabre,  and  crashes  the  spear ; 


THE     BATTLE     FIELD.  *  97 

Desperately  struggling  and  panting  for  breath, 
Foe  grapples  foe  in  the  vice-grip  of  death.    • 

Hark !  'Tis  an  earthquake ! — Though  pale  without  fear, 
Down  kneel  the  ranks  of  the  stern  musketeer. 
Trembles  the  firm  grotmd,  and  eddies  the  gloom 
As  the  heavy  armed  cavalry  sweep  to  their  doom. 
Onward  they  come,  and  each  hoof-print  impressed 
On  the  grass  of  the  plain  or  the  warrior's  breast 
Is  a  drain  for  the  life-blood  of  friend  or  of  foe. 
"  Hurra  for  the  onset !     What  care  we  to  know 
Who  falls  for  his  country,  if  leaving  his  name 
To  be  graven  on  high  jn  the  temple  of  fame !" 

Prancing  and  dancing  as  forward  they  spring, 
Horse  shoe  and  sabre-sheath  merrily  ring. 
Full  on  the  bayonet,  ghstening  and  bright, 
Plunges  the  troup  in  a  billow  of  hght, — 
Dashed  into  spray  by  the  terrible  shock, 
Back  roll  their  plumes  hke  the  wave  from  the  rock, 
Leaving  behind  them,  all  strewn  in  their  gore. 
Rider  and  horse  heaped  Hke  weeds  on  the  shore. 

RalHes  the  cuirassier !     Once  and  again 
That  steel-billow  breaks  on  the  echoing  plain. 
Ha !  the  fine  wavers — the  battle  is  won — 
Muscovy  vanquished — the  slaughter  begun — 


98  friendship's   offering. 

Rushing  and  crushing  o'er  dying  and  dead, — 
Human  in  carnage, — high  tossing  his  head, 
Snorts  the  proud  war-horse  erecting  his  mane  . 
As  he  dashes  his  hoof  in  the  face  of  the  slain. 

Wildly  the  shouts  of  the  victors  arise, 

And  the  reddening  earth  marks  the  hues  of  the  skies 

As  the  sun  looks  oblique  with  a  pitying  glance 

On  the  slaughter-gorged  flight  of  the  eagles  of  France ; 

For  the  laugh  of  a  demon  is  heard  far  away ; 

'Tis  the  howl  of  the  snow-wolf  that  welcomes  his  prey. 

Down  sinks  the  sun,  but  the  victors  are  gone : 
<^  Fire  the  lone  hamlet  to  beacon  them  on!" — 
God  of  my  fathers  !     Can  this  be  proud  man. 
Made  in  thy  image  and  lord  of  thy  plan. 
Patriot  and  sage,  to  whose  rule  thou  hast  given 
Power  upon  earth  and  an  heirdom  in  heaven ; 
Creature  of  reason  and  monarch  of  thought. 
Robbing  himself  of  the  wealth  which  he  bought 
At  the  price  of  lost  Eden  ? 

<<  Away  with  the  dream  ! 
On  with  the  song,  and  be  glory  the  theme ! 
Cowards  may  cringe  at  the  sound  of  the  knell 
Tolled  for  the  lost  in  the  battle  that  fell : 
We  shall  not  yield  to  the  fear  of  the  grave 
Prizes  that  wait  on  the  deeds  of  the  brave. 


THE     BATTLE     FIELD.  99 

Booty  and  beauty  in  life,  and  a  name 
Graven  on  high  in  the  temple  of  Fame." 

Hither,  thou  '^  hero,"  still  armed  for  the  fight, 
Coursing  the  field  in  the  stillness  of  night : 
Hithe^,  thou  tiger!    Give  ear  to  the  tune 
Glory  hymns  forth  by  the  fight  of  the  moon. 
Trembles  thy  charger  with  wide  flowing  mane  ? 
Why  threads  he  so  gently  the  groups  of  the  slain  ? 
Why  roll  his  fierce  eye-balls  1   Why  drops  he  his  head 
As  his  nostrils  expand  with  the  scent  of  the  dead  ? 
Unshrinking,  this  morning,  his  iron  hoof  plashed 
Fetlock  deep  in  the  blood-pool  as  onward  he  dashed. 
It  was  thine,  then,  not  his,  the  wild  fury  that  bore 
Thy  man-inspired  brute  amid  slaughter  and  gore  ! 
Aye !  well  may  thy  spear-point  be  weighed  to  the  ground ; 
Well  saddens  thy  visage  in  gazing  around : 
In  glory's  embrace,  to  the  wild  dog  a  prey. 
Lie  thousands — her  minions  at  dawning  of  day. 
They  Hved  for  her — died  for  her — what  are  they  now  ? 
Shroudless,  unnoted,  the  dew  on  their  brow. 
Where  the  long  grass,  their  epitaph,  proudly  shall  wave, 
With  the  next  vernal  sun,  o'er  the  couch  of  the  brave ; 
And  the  ox  and  the  wild  ass  in  browsing  shall  tell 
Where  rest  the  high  hearts  in  the  battle  that  fell. 
Fond  fool !  wouldst  thou  ask  for  each  victim  a  name  ? 
Go,  search  it  '^  on  high,  in  the  temple  of  Fame  !" 


FAITH  AND  SCANDAL. 

BY    CAMILLA    TOULMIN. 

To  the  astonishment  of  "the  world,"  Sir  Percy 
Borrowdaie  had  remained  for  ten  years  a  widower, 
though  left  such,  and  without  children,  at  the  age  of 
five-and-twenty.  Possessed  of  a  princely  fortune — 
tracing  his  descent  through  a  nohle  ancestry  for  five 
hundred  years,  and  himself  more  than  commonly  hand- 
some, there  is  no  wonder  that  he  was  looked  on  as  an 
excellent  ''match"  among  the  fairest  and  noblest  in  the 
country.  His  first  and  very  early  marriage  had  been 
in  compliance  with  his  father's  wishes ;  but  though  the 
chosen  bride  was  young  and  beautiful,  and  though  on 
her  death  every  mark  of  respect  was  paid  to  her  memory, 
Sir  Percy  never  aflfected  to  be  inconsolable  for  her 
loss.  And  yet  for  ten  years  he  did  not  wed  again ! 
Did  he  prefer  the  freedom  of  a  single  fife,  or  could  he 
not  find  one  of  womankind  to  reach  the  standard  of  his 
fastidious  taste?     At  last,  when  that  bundle  of  units 


FAITH     AND     SCANDAL.  101 

denominated  "the  world"  was  fairly  at  its  wits'  end  to 
account  for  his  apathy,  Sir  Percy  astonished  it  yet 
more  by  unexpectedly  taking  a  wife  to  Castle  Borrow- 
dale.  There  had  not  been  even  a  hint  of  his  intention 
in  the  Morning  Post,  conveyed  by  initials  and  asterisks. 
All  that  appeared,  one  morning,  was  the  simpleannounce- 
ment  of  his  nuptials  with  ''Alice,  only  child  of  the  late 
Reverend  Francis  Willoughby ;"  and  the  startled 
"world"  knew  not  at  first  in  which  direction  to  seek  for 
the  further  information  of  who  and  what  she  was.  After 
a  few  persevering  inquiries,  however,  people  discovered 
that  Lady  Borrowdale,  though  quite  portionless,  belonged 
to  an  old  and  respectable  family,  and  indeed  was  once 
considered  heiress  to  a  large  property,  which  had  been 
diverted  into  another  channel,  in  consequence  of  her 
father  being  unable  to  produce  some  necessary  docu- 
ments. 

After  the  first  shock  was  over,  the  busy  world  began 
to  talk  of  the  disparity  of  their  age,  (adding  a  few  years 
to  the  baronet's  and  deducting  somewhat  from  his 
lady's — for  Alice  Willoughby  was  really  two-and-twenty 
when  she  married,)  and  then,  by  degrees,  to  hint  at  a 
sacrifice  made  for  station  and  splendour.  Sir  Percy 
was  very  reserved — probably  morose  and  ill-tempered 
at  home, — so  people  said  ;  and  they  now  remembered, 
that  it  had  been  whispered,  his  first  marriage  was  an 
unhappy  one  :  no  doubt  there  were  faults  on  both  sides  ; 
9 


102  FKTFNDSHIP'S     OFFERING. 

but  they  dared  say  the  first  Lady  Borrowdale  had  had 
a  great  deal  to  put  up  with.  So  much  for  the  acidity 
of  the  grapes;  and  though,  really,  according  to  this 
account,  Alice  was  rather  to  be  pitied  than  otherwise, 
still  the  five  hundred  dear  friends  who  laid  claim  to  a 
place  on  her  visiting  list,  by  a  strange  contradiction, 
began  weighing  her  claims  to  the  honour  of  Sir  Percy's 
hand,  as  carefully  as  if  he  had  been  a  modern  Crichton 
created  and  perfected  for  a  pattern,  and  a  prize  unique. 
Humanity  is  made  up  of  strange  opposites,  we  know, 
but  according  to  "  the  world's"  account,  this  must  have 
been  pecuHarly  the  case  in  the  instance  of  Lady  Borrow- 
dale ;  for  every  good  quality  seemed  to  be  attended  by 
the  '^jailor,  but  yet,''''  ever  ready  to  *' usher  in  some 
monstrous  malefactor."  Her  figure  was  beautiful, 
certainly,  but — she  wanted  another  inch  in  height ;  her 
hand  was  the  most  perfect  in  the  world,  but— of  course 
she  knew,  it,  and  wore  'Uhat  emerald  ring"  to  set  it 
off;  her  complexion  was  very  fine,  but — not  of  the  kind 
which  lasts ;  she  was  considered  handsome,  certainly, 
but-^-it  is  not  every  one  who  admires  blue  eyes  and 
dark  hair.  Sweet  Alice,  the  wild  flower  transplanted 
to  the  hot-bed  of  fashionable  life ! — little  did  she  dream 
of  the  narrow  scrutiny  to  which  she  had  been  subject 
during  her  first  London  season,  when,  towards  its  close, 
Sir  Percy  and  his  lady  withdrew  to  the  comparative 
retirement  of  Castle  Borrowdale. 


FAITH     AND     SCANDAL.  103 

The  castle  was  situated  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
of  our  southern  counties,  and  within  half  a  mile  of  the 
coast.  The  spot  had  been  chosen  by  an  ancestor  of  the 
Borrowdales — a  distinguished  naval  officer  in  the  reign 
of'  Elizabeth — and  the  building,  which  had  belonged  to 
some  other  family,  was  altered  and  enlarged  by  him  in 
the  quaint  fashion  of  the  period.  It  would  seem  that  a 
love  of  the  glorious  ocean — -its  thronging  associations 
and  heart-stirring  poetry, — had  ever  since  distinguished 
the  family.  Many  of  its  members  had  chosen  the 
navy  as  a  profession;  and  the  castle,  whose  terraces 
sloped  down  to  the  sea,  had  for  ages  been  a  favourite - 
residence.  What  a  change  for  the  clergyman's  daughter, 
— from  the  country  vicarage,  overgrown  with  roses  and 
honeysuckle,  to  be  mistress  of  the  stately  castle  ! 

The  marriage  of  Alice  Willoughby  had  been  sudden ; 
for,  though  known  to  her  by  name  since  childhood,  she 
met  Sir  Percy  for  the  first  time  but  two  months  before 
she  became  his  bride.  Her  love  was  built  upon  the 
strong  foundation  of  respect  and  just  appreciation  of  her 
husband's  high  qualities ;  while  every  additional  mark 
of  tenderness  on  his  part  called  forth  the  latent  warmth 
of  her  own  feelings.  But  it  is  quite  true  that  Sir  Percy 
was  a  reserved  man :  his  attainments,  too,  were  of  a 
high  order ;  and  though  when  first  attracted  to  Alice 
he  had  felt,  by  a  sort  of  intuition,  that  her  feminine  yet 
enlarged  mind  was    precisely  the  one  to  receive  and 


104  friendship's   offering. 

mirror  his  o^yn  purest  and  loftiest  aspirations,  she  was 
not  equallyconscious  of  the  depth  of  her  own  character. 
The  natural  consequence  of  this  ignorance  was,  that  a 
slight  feeling  of  awe  mingled  with  her  true  affection — 
like  a  serpent  among  flowers — and  many  a  thought 
which  her  heart  longed  to  shadow  forth  in  words,  she 
repelled  from  the  undefined  dread  that  her  simple 
fancies  must  to  him  seem  foolish. 

Yet  very  rapidly  was  this  barrier — icy  though  trifling 
— ^melting  away  ;  and  even  a  few  days  of  retirement  at 
the  castle  after  their  London  gaiety,  did  wonders  towards 
effecting  a  change.  Xiady  Borrowdale  was  gratified,  at 
first  almost  astonished,  that  in  their  long  rides  and 
rambles  Sir  Percy  would  listen  to  her  observations  on 
the  scenes  they  visited  with  interest  and  attention :  thus 
emboldened  she  often  grew  eloquent  till  she  blushed  as 
she  recognized  the  joy  and  admiration  which  sparkled 
in  her  husband's  countenance.  Graver  subjects,  too, 
were  sometimes  discussed;  and  though  Sir  Percy 
smiled  to  discover  how  often  the  simple  acuteness  of 
her  own  mind  arrived  at  the  conclusions  of  philosophers, 
it  was  not  the  fool's  smile  at  woman's  wit,  but  one  of 
pure  rejoicing  that  he  had. indeed  found  ^' a  help  meet 
for  him."  Yes,  the  shadowy  barrier  was  quickly 
melting,  and  they  were  already  the  happiest  of  the 
happy. 

Lady  Borrowdale  was  passionately  fond  of  art,  and 


FAITH     AND     SCANDAL.  105 

indeed  somewhat  skilled  in  using  the  pencil  herself; 
no  wonder  then  that  a  favourite  haunt  of  hers  was  the 
picture  gallery  of  the  castle.  One  morning  she  was 
sauntering  there  while  Sir  Percy  read  his  letters,  pre- 
paratory to  their  proposed  stroll  on  the  beach,  when  he 
surprised  her  in  a  deep  reverie  before  the  portrait  of 
his  first  wife.  The  painting  was  by  Lawrence,  and 
sufficiently  beautiful  to  have  arrested  the  gaze  of  one 
less  enthusiastic  than  Alice  ;  but  so  entranced  was  she 
that  she  did  not  hear  Sir  Percy's  approaching  footsteps, 
and  was  only  aroused  by  his  passing  an  arm  round  her 
waist,  and  saying,  as  he  drew  her  aflfectionately  towards 
him,  ^'Why  is  my  Alice  so  absorbed?" 

She  looked  into  his  face  with  a  smile  full  of  truth 
and  confidence,  as  she  replied,  <'  I  was  wondering  if  she 
ever  were  as  dear — or  dearer  to  you  than  I !" 

^' AHce,  you  will  not  be  jealous  of  the  dead,  if  I  own 
to  you  that  I  once  loved  her — deeply — passionately ; 
but  it  was  reserved  for  you,  dearest,  to  realize  my 
dreams,  and  make  me  supremely  happy." 

''Was  she  unamiable?"  murmured  Alice. 

''No.  The  secret  of  our  wretchedness  was,  that 
she  could  not  love  me." 

"  Not  love  you '." 

"Even  so.  Her  heart  was  wholly  another's;  she 
consented  to  marry. me,  at  the  earnest  entreaty  of  her 


9* 


106  friendship's   offering. 

parents,  and  in  consequence  of  false  representations  of 
her  lover's  unworthiness.  But  within  a  month  of  our 
bridal,  accident  discovered  to  her  the  cruel  deception 
which  had  been  practised,  and  her  agony  was  such  that 
further  concealment,  even  if  she  attempted  it,  proved 
vain.  Thenceforth  we  were  twain ;  for  though  more 
than  once  during  the  last  four  years  of  her  hfe  I  tried 
to  play  the  wooer,  I  found  she  had  no  heart  to  give. 
Latterly,  indeed,  I  suspect  her  reason  gave  way,  though 
well  she  knew  if  half  my  fortune  could  have  purchased 
a  release  for  her,  it  should  have  been  gained.  We 
were  both  too  proud  to  take  the  busy  Avorld  into  our 
confidence  ;  but  you  cannot  wonder  that  I  long  hesitated 
in  making  a  second  choice.  Do  you  know,  dearest, 
that  I  satisfied  myself  from  your  aunt,  who  had  been 
your  companion  from  childhood,  that  you  had  never 
loved,  before  I  suffered  myself  to  think  of  taking  the 
little  Wild  Rose  to  my  heart." 

<'Wild  Rose"  was  one  of  the  many  pet  names  Sir 
Percy  had  bestowed  on  his  bride  ;  yet  somehow  or  other 
Ahce  did  not  at  that  moment  exactly  hke  the  application 
of  it.  In  connection  with  the  story  she  had  just  heard, 
it  seemed  painfuUy  to  remind  her  of  his  probable  reasons 
for  taking  a  wife  from  a  country  parsonage,  instead  of 
seeking  for  one  in  the  haunts  of  fashion.  Feelings, 
too,  which  will  by-and-by  be  d^velopfed,  flashed  across 


FAITH     AND     SCANDAL.  107 

her  mind,  and  a  tear  fell  upon  Sir  Percy's  hand  as  she 
raised  it  to  her  lips,  and  said,  in  faltering  accents,  "You 
know  I  love  you." 

He  did  not  see  her  face,  for  bonnet  and  veil  were  on 
in  readiness  for  the  promised  walk  ;  but  he  felt  the  tear, 
and  chiding  himself  for  the  cause,  he  exclaimed,  "No 
more  of  such  dismal  stories :  I  must  tell  you  the  letters 
I  have  received — there  are  several  enclosures  for  ^  your 
ladyship  ;'  and  I  doubt  not  our  invitations  are  accepted. 
We  shall  have  the  castle  full  of  visitors  next  week ;  but 
let  me  whisper — it  is  too  inhospitable  •  thought  for 
louder  expression — I  almost  wish  these  visits  over,  that 
we  may  again  be  alone.  But  come,  you  are  ready  for 
our  walk."  ^ 

"I  wonder  what  our  young  hostess  can  find  so 
attractive  in  that  miserable  hut,  down  by  the  shingles," 
was  the  exclamation  of  Lady  Maria  Skipton,  a  spinster 
of  about  thirty,  and  one  of  the  party  at  Castle  Borrow- 
dale. 

"  Does  she  find  it  very  attractive  ?"  repHed  an 
"  Honourable  Captain,"  for  whom  Lady  Maria  was  at 
that  moment  netting  a  purse. 

"I  suppose  so,  for  to  my  certain  knowledge  this  is 
the  third  morning  she  has  spent  the  best  part  of  an  hour 
there." 


108  friendship's    offering, 

"  The  fisherman,  Grant,  arid  his  wife  are  in  some 
sort  proteges  of  Lady  Borrowdale,"  said  Mrs.  Damer, 
the  most  sensible,  as  she  was  the  most  elegant  woman 
of  the  party;  "the  wife  being  no  other  than  <  nurse 
Margery,'  of  whom  I  think  you  have  more  than  once 
heard  our  sweet  hostess  «peak." 

"Oh!"  murmured  Lady  Maria,  so//o  voce,  though 
her  inquiring  mind  was  not  altogether  satisfied  on  the 
subject. 

In  one  of  the  drawing-room  windows  at  Castle 
Borrowdale  •Ivas  fixed  a  very  fine  telescope ;  and 
excusing  herself  on  some  sHght  pretence  from  joining 
the  rest  of  the  party,  who  were  bent  on  riding  and 
boating,  there  did  Lady  Maria  Skipton  station  herself 
the  following  morning.  The  castle  stood  on  so  great 
an  acchvity,  that  the  glass  swept  the  coast  for  miles ; 
but  though  her  ladyship  paid  a  few  minutes'  attention 
to  the  party  in  the  boat,  she  found  nothing  satisfactory 
in  witnessing  their  quietness,  and  so  pointed  the  glass 
at  once  in  the  direction  of  the  fisherman's  cottage. 
Exemplary  was  her  patience— pity  it  was  not  tested  on 
a  more  praiseworthy  occasion !  Once  or  twice  she 
resumed  her  netting ;  but  after  a  few  stitches  always 
rose  to  continue  her  watch.  It  would  seem  that  her 
expectations,  whatever  they  might  be,  were  at  last 
verified,  for  suddenly  she  exclaimed   to   herself,  "I 


FAITH     AND     SCANDAL.  109 

knew  there  was  a  mystery  !"  Then  shifting  the  tele- 
scope very  shghtly,  she  again  peered  through  it  with 
apparently  increased  interest. 

.  It  was  evening.  The  glorious  autumn  moon  shone 
forth  in  all  its  splendour,  bathing  the  noble  cattle  and 
its  princely  domains  in  a  flood  of  Kght.  The  day  had 
been  sultry,  and  after  dinner  some  of  the  ladies  walked 
out  on  a  beautiful  terrace,  on  to  which  Lady  Borrow- 
dale's  boudoir  opened.  Distinctly  might  be  heard  the 
waves  breaking  on  the  shingles,  while  ocean  lay  gazing 
<^with  its  great  round  eye"  to  heaven  before  them.  It 
was  an  exquisite  scene — one  that,  where  there  is  a 
heart  to  be  touched,  must  awake  its  best  sensibilities. 
But  thus  spoke  Lady  Maria:  "Now  my  dear  Mrs. 
Damer,  don't  be  poetical,  for  I  have  something  most 
matter-of-fact  to  tell  you.  Indeed  I  have  been  watching 
all  day  for  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  you,  and  now 
that  Lady  Bprrowdale  and  your  sister  have  gone  down 
to  the  lawn,  we  can  avoid  meeting  them  for  a  few 
minutes  with  ease." 

"I  am  not  at  all  in  a  matter-of-fact  humour,"  said 
Mrs.  Damer,  with  a  smile,  "listening  to  the  sea's  rich 
music  beneath  this  glorious  sky." 

"Well !  but  hsten  to  me..  Did  you  notice  how  con- 
fused Lady  Borrowdale  was  at  dinner  to-day,  when  I 
pretended  to  think  it  was  Captain  Howard  with  whom 
she  was  walking  on  the  beach  this  morning  ?  He,  with 


110  friendship's   offering. 

all  a  sailor's  bluntness,  denied  having  had  that  honour, 
of  which  I  was  quite  awaxe  before  I  spoke." 

*'Now  you  mention  it,"  returned  Mrs.  Darner,  ''I 
think  she  did  colour  slightly;  but  what  of  that?" 

*'/ could  tell  you  a  great  deal  of  it,"  continued  the 
spinster,  ^'  and  I  think  I  ought  to  do  so,  since,  though 
I  dare  say  no  older  than  myself,"  (Mrs.  Damer  was 
five  years  her  junior,)  <'you  are  the  only  married  lady 
here." 

.^'Good  heavens  !  Lady  Maria,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

** Listen!  I  saw  Lady  Borrowdale  walking  with  a 
stranger  in  the  garden  behind  the  fisherman's  cottage, 
and  I  am  certain,  from  the  manner  in  which  she  raised 
her  handkerchief  to  her  face,  that  she  was  in  tears ; 
there  was  an  infant,  too,  brought  out  by  the  fisherman's 
wife,  which  she  took  in  her  arms  and  fondled." 

"  Most  probably  it  was  the  child  of  her  old  servant," 
replied  Mrs.  Damer,  *'I  see  nothing  wonderful  in  that." 

"No  such  thing;  Margery  Grant  has  no  children  of 
her  own." 

"At  all  events,  it  does  not  concern  us,"  continued 
Mrs.  Damer,  apparently  quite  relieved  at  finding  that 
the  communication  was  nothing  more  dreadful. 

"  But  I  think  it  does,"  returned  the  pertinacious 
lady — ^"  I  have  a  great  regard  for  Sir  Percy  ;"  (rumour 
said  Lady  Maria,  a  few  years  before,  had  set  her  cap 
very  desperately  at  the  baronet,)  "  in  my  opinion,  he 


FAITH     AND     SCANDAL.  Ill 

has  made  a  very  imprudent  marriage,  and  I  should  not 
be  a  bit  surprised  if  his  parvenue  wife,  chit  as  she  is, 
proves  no  better  than  she  should  be  !" 

^'  Hush  !  hush  !"  said  Mrs.  Damer^  «'  I  cannot  listen 
to  such  slander.  Lady  Bofrowdale  is  our  hostess — a 
gentlewoman  in  every  thing ;  and,  I  would  stake  my 
own  character,  pure  in  heart  and  conduct.  Lady  Maria, 
no  more  of  this;  we  had  better  return  to  the  drawing- 
room."  m         '    ~ 

A  wonderful  interest  Lady  Maria' Skipton  must  have 
taken  in  all  the  outward-bound  vessels ;  for  she  really 
spent  a  large  portion  of  her  mornings  at  the  telescope — 
watching  the  shipping,  we  suppose.  How  learnedly 
she  talked,  too,  of--— sdhooners, — brigs, — ^barks, — and 
three-deckers,-^according  to  the  various  classifications 
of  the  genus  "  ship."  Whether  she  received  it  or  not, 
she  certainly  might  have  earned  the  compliment  we 
heard  paid  to  a  dear  friend  .of  ours  by  a  rough  old 
sailor,  on  his  witnessing  her  nautical  acumen  and 
enthusiasm,  ''  Bless  your  bright  eyes,  you  deserve  to 
be  an  admiral's  lady !" — a  dignity,  which  was  no 
doubt,  in  his  estimation,  the  most  enviable  which  could 
fall  to  the  lot  of  womankind.  Yet  thrice,  when  all  the 
rest  of  the  party  were  absent.  Lady  Maria  suddenly 
required  Sir  Percy's  aid  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
glass — the  last  time,  however,  was  fatal  to  her  future 
pleasure,  for  after  using  it  for  some  time  with  a  sort  of 


112 


painful  interest,  he  took  the  telescope  to  pieces  without 
a  previous  word  of  his  intention,  and  actually  put  a  lens 
in  his  pocket  on  the  plea  that  there  was  a  flaw  in  it. 

But  let  us  take  a  peep  at  the  fisherman's  cottage, 
and  listen  to  a  conversation  of  which  Lady  Maria,  with 
all  her  diligence,  was  unable  to  gather  the  purport. 
Seated  on  a  rustic  bench  was  Lady  Borrowdale, 
evidently  in  tears,  while  near  her,  in  deep  mourning, 
stood  a  handliome  gentlemanlike  man  of  about  thirty ; 
he  had  been  speaking  with  some  earnestness,  when 
Lady  Borrowdale  replied,  ^'The  struggle  of  the  last 
week  has  been  almost  beyond  my  strength,  both  of 
mind  and  body.  Oh !  George,  why  did  I  not  at  first 
make  my  kind,  generous  husband  your  friend,  instead 
of  meeting  you  thus  by  stealth,  teaching  these  poor 
people  a  lesson  of  deception,  and  forfeiting  my  own 
self-esteem?" 

"  Because,  Alice,  my  sister !  you  had  not  courage  to 
spurn  the  outcast  and  prodigal,. when  in  the  depth  of 
his  affliction  he  threw  himself  before  you.  The  old 
leaven  is  in  me,"  he  continued,  stamping  with  violence  : 
"  I  will  not  show  myself  as  a  beggar  to  your  haughty 
husband.  And  I  am  worse  than  a  beggar ;  the  imputa- 
tion of  dishonour  clings  to  me  till  I  can  prove  my 
innocence."  ' 

f^You  forget,"  said  Alice  tenderly,  and  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  ^'that  it  is  only  your  generosity  to 


FAITH     AND     SCANDAL.  113 

me  which  prevents  your  character  being  cleared  imme- 
diately. Oh,  those  foolish  —  foohsh  letters!  —  yet, 
George,  you  know  it  was  a  silly,  girlish  fancy,  and  that 
I  never  loved  him;  nay  ;  that  /was  the  one  to  break  off 
our  childish  engagement."  - 

<'Fool  that  I  was,  after  recovering  them,  to  keep 
them  !"  cried  the  stranger ;  ''  yet  greater  was  the  folly 
in  placing  them  in  the  iron  chest. — I  dare  not  return  to 
open  it  myself — and  for  your  sake,  Alice,  I  will  not 
send  another.  Say,  would  you  rather  delay  for  years, 
perhaps  fail  altogether,  in  the  recovery  of  your  father's 
rights,  than  suffer  your  husband  to  know — sincegihis 
prejudices  are  so  strong — of  your  former  engagement 
to ?" 

<'0h!  much  rather." 

Without  another  word,  George  Rushbrook  walked 
a  few  steps  to  the  beach,  and  flung  a  key  into  the 
ocean;  then  murmuring,  "You  will  not  let  my  httle 
Alice  want,"  he  moved  away. 

*'Very  sudden.  Lady  Borrowdale's  illness!"  ex- 
claimed Lady  Maria  Skipton,  a  few  hours  after  the 
events  of  the  last  chapter. 

<'  I  do  not  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Damer,  <^  for  she  has 
been  looking  wretchedly  ill  the  last  four  or  five  days." 

"Do  you  think  we  ought  to  continue  our  visit?" 
returned  Lady  Maria. 

10 


114  friendship's   offering. 

<^  Sir  Percy  seems  anxiously  to  wish  it;  for  though 
distracted  at  Lady  Borrowdale's  illness,  he  told  me  he 
had  urgent  reasons  for  desiring  that  the  party  should 
not  be  broken  up." 

It  was  quite  true  that  Lady  Borrowdale's  frame  had 
&unk  beneath  the  strong  mental  excitement  she  had 
undergone.  One  fainting  fit  followed  another ;  medical 
attendants  were  called  in,  and  Sir  Percy  hung  over  his 
idolized  Alice,  in  a  state  of  mind  bordering  on  distrac- 
tion ;  for  many  were  the  wild  and  crowding  cares  which 
increased  his  agony.  Towards  evening  she  grew 
mor^  composed,  and  fell  into  a  light  slumber.  Sir  Percy 
alone  keeping  watch  beside  her.  Many  broken  excla- 
mations of  affection  escaped  her;  and  when  he  took 
her  hand  in  his,  though  still  without  disturbing  her, 
she  grasped  it  warmly.  When  she  did  awake,  she 
looked  up  fondly  as  she  said, 

"  Have  I  been  talking,  Percy — and  what,  about  ?" 

<' Nothing,  dearest,  but  that  which  made  me  happy 
to  hear." 

"Ohybut  I  have  a  secret — I  must  tell  you— even 
though  you  should  not  forgive  me — and  yet  it  is  not 
my  fault — I  did  not  deceive  you.  Yes,  I  can  tell  you 
now  that  we  are  again  alone — now  those  people  are 
gone." 

"  No  one  is  gone,  Alice." 

<*  No  !  then  I  dreamed  they  were  ;  but  I  will  tell  you 


FAITH     AND     SCANDAL.  115 

— now  at  once — give  me  your  hand,  feel  how  my  heart 
beats."  • 

"  You  must  have,  rest  and  quiet,  you  must  not  speak, 
dearest.  Your  husband  has  faith  in  you,  and  beheves 
that  you  have  nothing  to  tell  him  which  he  can  blush 
to  hear."  v   ^ 

"  Bless  you  for  yOur  faith  !"  and  she  turned  on  her 
pillow  and  was  silent — though  now  she  was  reheved  by 
tears. 

It  was  the  following  morning.  The.  invalid  had 
been  removed  to  her  boudoir,  and  reclined  on  a  couch ; 
Sir  Percy  was  seated  by  her  side,  his  hand  again  in 
hers. 

**  You  remember  my  telHng  you  of  my  half-brother," 
said  Lady  Boftowdale,  <^  and  relating  to  you  that  I  had 
not  seen  him  for  three  years  ;  although  I  had  heard  of 
his  marriage  with  one  far  beneath  him  in  station  ?" 

"Perfectly." 

"  His  was  always  a  complicated  character,  wild  and 
impetuous  in  action,  constant  but  in  one  thing-r— his 
affection  to  me.  He  was  brought  up  to  the  law,  and 
long  ago  became  convinced  that  the  certificates  requisite 

to  estabhsh  my  father's  claim  to  the  estate  of  S 

were  to  be  obtained.  He  devoted,  I  know,  much  time 
to  the  investigation  of  our  claims,  but  only  within  this 
week  have  I  heard  how  successful  he  has  been." 


116  friendship's   offering. 

"  Then  it  was  your  brother  with  whom  I  saw  you 
yesterday  ?"  interrupted  Sir  Per?y. 

"  You  saw  me  !  and  did  not  scorn  me  !" 

"Ahce,  I  had  faith — though,  that  you  should  have  a 
secret  pained  me." 

"  But  George,  from  a  choice  of  unworthy  associates, 
has  become  charged  with  a  share  in  a  nefarious  money 
transaction  now  occupying'  the  attention  of  the  pubhc, 
though  he  assures  me — and  oh  !  I  know  that  whatever 
his  faults,  he  is  not  dishonourable — that  documents 
in  which  he  repudiates  his  partner's  intentions,  are  in 
the  same  iron  chest  which  contains  the  certificates. 
But  he  dares  not  show  himself  in  London  till  proofs  are 
estabhshed ;  and  he  was  on  his  way  to  France,  intending 
thence  to  send  a  confidential  agent  with  his  keys,  when 
the  accident  of  the  nurse  who  attended  his  motherless 
child  refusing  to  accompany  him  further,  brought  to 
mind  the  fact  that  our  old  servant  Margery  was  settled 
in  the  neighbourhood.  He  placed  his  infant  in  her 
hands  with  confidence,  intrusting  a  message  to  me,  for 
he  was  too  proud  to  present  himself  at  the  castle  in 
poverty  and  disgrace.  It  was  by  accident  we  met  at 
the  cottage,  and — and — if  it  had  been  a  fortnight  ago, 
when  we  were  alone,  or  before  you  told  me  the  story 
of  the  first  Lady  Borrowdale,  indeed  Percy  I  could 
never  have  kept  the  secret ;  but — oh  !  I  have  more, 
much  more !" 


FArrH     AND     SCANDAL.  117 

~  At  that  moment  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  A 
servant  entered:  *'My  Lady — dame  Margery  Grant 
begs  to  be  admitted — having  something,  she  desires  me 
to  say,  very  urgent  to  communicate." 

^^  Admit  her,"  said  Lady  Borrowdale,  casting  an 
appeahng  look  to  her  husband.  "What  happiness," 
she  added,  '<  that  whether  good  or  evil,  her  tidings  may 
be  deHvered  in  your  presence  !" 

Margery's  handsome  face  sparkled  with  joyful 
astonishment,  as  Lady  Borrowdale  bade  her  say  every 
thing  she  had  to  say,  in  the  presence  of  Sir  Percy. 

''Dear  Miss  Alice — I  mean  ^my  lady,'"  said  the 
affectionate  creature,  ''it  does  my  heart  good  to  find 
the  secret's  out,  whatever  it  was  about.  Of  course,  as 
I  said  to  my  good  man,  it  was  our  bounden  duty  to 
keep  it  safe — and  being  two  of  us,  you  see,  to  talk  about 
it  together,  it  wasn't  so  difficult — as  it  was  your  lady- 
ship's wish,  and  poor  Mr.  George— though  he  was 
before  my  service  in  the  family — was  in  trouble  of  some 
kind  or  another — and  the  dear  baby  took  to  me  so  from 
the  first—" 

But  the  anxious  Ahce  interrupted  Margery  by  ex- 
claiming, "  My  brother ! — has  he  heard  of  my  illness- 
did  he  send  you?" 

"Alas  !  Miss — my  lady,  we  have  not. seen  him  this 
morning.  He  must  have  left  the  cotage  at  a  very  early 
hour,  nor  somehow,  from  what  he  said  last  night,  do  I 
10* 


118  friendship's    offering. 

think  he  will  return.  My  good  man  fancies  he  must 
have  been  taken  up  'by  one  of  the  foreign  steamers 
which  he  made  out  with  his  glass.  But  what  I  made 
bold  to  come  up  to  the  castle  about  was  the  key — 'I  am 
sure  it  is  the  identical  one  he  threw  into  the  water 
yesterday,  and  behold,  by  the  wisdom  of  Providence,  the 
tide  last  night  left  it  within  five  yards  of  the  cottage  !  I 
was  sure,  my  lady,  you  valued  the  key — so  here  it  is." 
,'  <<And  now,  dearest,  what  are  we  to  do  with  this 
mysterious  key,"  said  Sir  Percy,  when  once  more  they 
were  alone,  ^'  shall  it  be  sealed  up  until  you  hear  some 
account  of  your  brother  ?" 

**  No  !"  said  Lady  Borrowdale,  half  rising  from  her 
couch,  as  if  with  her  firm  resolution  she  had  recovered 
health  and  strength.  "  No,  you  alone  have  the  right 
to  open  that  chest,  for  there  are  papers  in  it  which 
concern  me.  All  I  ask — and  I  would  sue  for  your 
compliance  on  my  knees — is  that  I  may  be  by  your 
side.  It  must  be  immediately,  for  I  can  know  no  peace 
till  it  is  over — why  not  to-night — ^by  railroad — for  the 
chest  is  imbedded  in  the  wall — a  secret  panel — and  we 
miifet  go  to  it  ?" 

^'Good  heavens,  Alice!"  exclaimed  Sir  Percy, 
trembling  and  turning  pale  with  emotion,  "there  must 
be  some  dreadful  mystery — do  I  guress  the  fearful 
riddle  ? — ^my  fatal  doom  !-^you  have  loved  before — and 
there  are  letters !" 


FAITH     AND     SCANDAL.  119 

"  Nc — no— not  loved — believe  me,  never  ! — never," 
cried  Alice,  sinking  on  her  knees,  and  twining  her 
arms  round  her  husband.  ^'  I  was  engaged  to  one  who 
was  unworthy — but  I  awoke  from  the  delusion — I  was 
the  one  to  break  off  our  intercourse — your  wife  was 
not  cast  off  by  another ! — Hear  me  ! — look  at  me  !  or  I 
shall  lose  my  reason,"  continued  Lady  Borrowdale, 
while  she  succeeded  in  removing  Sir  Percy's  hands 
from  the  death-hke  countenance  which  he  had  buried 
in  them.  *'  Hear  me,  even  at  this  moment  of  agony, 
offer  up  thanksgiving  that  I  am  your  wife — that  I  dare 
and  can  tell,  and  prove  to  you,  how  wholly  I  am  yours. 
Had  you  questioned  me  before  our  maTriage,  I  should 
have  told  you  the  truth ;  but  I  could  not  have  urged  it 
passionately  as  I  do  now.  I  should  have  lost  you  ! 
Percy  ! — Percy,  hear  me — answer  me,  one  word  of 
love — of  the  faith  you  had  in  me  yesterday." 

And  it  was  spoken  from  the  heart  at  last !  But  who 
shall  tell  how  fierce  that  momentary  struggle  had  been 
between  love  and  reason,  on  one  side,  as  they  en- 
countered an  opinion,  hardened  by  fifteen  years  of 
prejudice  into  a  master  sentiment  ? 

"At  least  you  will  read  the  letter  in  which  I  broke 
off  the  engagement,"  murmured  Alice,  as  her  head 
leaned  on  Sir  Percy's  shoulder. 

"Nay,  nay,  dearest,  let  them  all  be  burnt  and  for- 
gotten." 


120 


*'  But  if  I  ask  it — if  I  wish  it— it  was  for  this  I 
desired  to  be  with  you — that  you  might  read  that  first ! 
But  think,  if  your  little  Alice  comes  into  five  thousand- 
a-year,  though  dearly  has  it  been  purchased — what 
shall  you  do  with  it  ?" 

**  Settle  your  wild  brother,  who  seems  hitherto  to 
have  been  the  foot-ball  of  fortune.  And,  whether  or 
not,  we  must  take  care  of  your  httle  nanj^esake  !" 

"And  our  visitors,"  returned  Lady  Borrowdale,— 
"  surely  some  of  them  were  to  have  left  us  to-day." 

"  I  besought  Lady  Maria  to  remain  till  the  end  of 
the  week.  I  would  not  have  had  her  leave  while  we 
were  twain  ^ 

<<  But  we  are  one  now  and  for  ever  1" 

A  year  passed  away,  working  its  mighty  changes. 
Once  again  Lady  Maria  Skipton  was  a  guest  at  Castle 
Borrowdale,  and  with  one  or  two  additions  the  party 
was  the  same  as  before. 

<*  I  think  Lady  Borrowdale  has  grown  very  haughty," 
said  Lady  Maria,  *^  since  she  came  into  her  own  for- 
tune." 

"  I  do  not  fancy  that  has  had  any  thing  to  do  with 
the  change,"  replied  Mrs.  Darner. 

"  No !  what  then  ?" 

"  I  think  she  is  a  little  more  dignified,  from  being 
more  conscious  of  her  own  just  position  in  society." 


FAITH     AND     SCANDAL.  121 

^<  Yet  Sir  Percy  is  much  less  reserved,  I  think." 

<'Just  as  it  ought  to  be,"  returned  Mrs.  Darner; 
'^  she  has  ascended — she  lias  descended  a  step  or  two  ; 
so  now  they  stand  upon  a  level." 

"A  gentleman-like  person  her  brother !" 

"Very." 

"Fortunate  in  obtaining  so  fine  a  situation  under 
government." 

"Very."  .    " 

"What  a  romantic  affair  that  was  last  year,  about 
Lady  Borrowdale  meeting  him  and  arranging  all  about 
the  recovery  of  her  property  before  Sir  Percy  knew  a 
word  of  the  affair." 

"Was  that  the  case  ?"  ^M  Mrs.  Damer. 

"Oh,  yes!  My  maid  heard  it  from  one,  whose 
cousin's  wife's  sister  was  a  fellow-servant  for  three 
years  with  Margery  Grant." 

Fortunate  it  is,  that  the  Lady  Marias  of  the  world 
sometimes  beat  out  a  grain  of  truth  to  a  good,  instead  of 
an  evil  purpose  ! 


MARGUERITE. 


"Chers  enfans,  dansez,  dansez ! 

Voire  age 
Ech^ppe  a  I'orage : 
Par  I'espoir  gaiement  berces, 
Dansez,  cbantez,  dansez !" 

Beranoer. 


"It  is  most wearisomejwinon !  I  can  never  support 
the  fatigue  which,  as  Grande  Dame  du  Village,  you 
say,  is  necessary ;  why,  one,  fete  has  succeeded  another, 
ever  since  I  quitted  Paris  : — it  is  too  much !" 

"  Madame  went  through  a  great  deal  more  fatigue 
there,' 'replied  the  waiting-maid. 

"  Ay,  true,  Ninon ;  but  it  was  fatigue  of  a  different 
character.  The  marquis,  during  his  lifetime,  never 
thought  it  expedient  that  we  should  pass  our  summers 
at  Salency :  however,  it  is  pleasant  to  see  people 
happy — innocent  and  happy  ; — and  this  fete,  Ninon,  was 
instituted  by  St.  Medard,  bishop  of  Noyon,  for  adjudging 
annually  the  prize  of  a  crown  of  roses  to  the  girl  who 


MARGUERITE.  123 

should  be  acknowledged  by  all  her  competitors  as  the 
most  amiable,  modest,  and  dutiful  in  the  village :  he 
had  the  pleasure  of  crowning  his  own, sister  as  the  first 
Rose  Queen." 

"  Amiable,  modest,  and  dutiful !"  thought  the  attend- 
ant. *^  Ma  foi !  at  Paris  such  quahties  would  be  more 
likely  to  win  a  poor  girl  a  crown  of  thorns  !  What 
hour  will  madame  command  the  ceremony?"  she  in- 
quired. 

<^I  shall  be  ready  at  whatever  hour  the  pastor  thinks 
best." 

"  Ah !  madame  is  always  go.od,"  observed  the 
soubrette.  ^     , 

"  And  I  shall  not  alter  my  dress,  Ninon." 

"  Madame  is  always  beautiful ;  huU — " 

"  Well !"  inquired  the  lady,  "  why  do  you  look  so 
dissatisfied  ?" 

"  If  madame  would  approve  of  those  hanging  sleeves, 
with  the  laced  bodice  over  the  figured  satin?" 

«'  They  are  almost  too  fine  for  the  occasion,"  observed 
her  mistress. 

"  Pardon,  madame  !  all  the  world  will  be  here." 

"  Ah,  well ;  I  suppose  I  must  honour  La  Rosiere ! 
who  is  she  ?" 

"Madame,  she  is  called  Marguerite,  and  is  con- 
sidered a  beauty ;  but  she  wants  tournure  so  much." 

"  Who  are  her  parents  ?" 


124  friendship's   offering. 

"  Really,  madame,  I  do  not  know.  The  villagers 
say,"  she  added,  smiling,  "  that  she  never  had  any." 

«* Poor  child!"  sighed  the  marchioness. 

Ninon  moved  about  the  dressing-room  of  the  rich 
lady  of  Salency ;  she  folded  and  unfolded,  locked 
and  unlocked,  arranged  and  disarranged,  that  she 
might  have  some  excuse  for  arranging  again  ;  and  yet 
she  could  not  attract  the  attention  of  her  mistress,  who 
appeared  completely  absorbed  by  her  own  thoughts ; 
seated  in  a  magnificent  chair,  rich  in  antique  carving, 
and  velvet  cushions,  and  heavy  with  bulHon ;  the  hght, 
varied  by  the  different  tints  of  the  glass  through  which 
it  passed,  flung  its  stripes  of  purple,  red,  and  yellow  at 
her  feet — a  very  carpet  of  sunbeams ! — the  air  she 
breathed  was  heavy  to  sickhness  with  perfume :  she 
was  the  titled  and  uncontrolled  mistress  of  an  overflow- 
ing abundance ;  yet,  there  she  sat,  her  white  fingers 
clasped,  one  within  the  other,  on  her  lap, — her  head 
thrown  back — her  beautiful  features  shaded,  but  not 
obscured,  by  the  signs  of  widowhood,  which  but  in- 
creased their  power.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  ;  yet  they 
were  full  of  thought  and  feeling;  for,  though  the 
upturned  lids  remained  unmoved,  their  colour  would 
deepen  and  expand ;  and  once — but  oncC'— two  gHtter- 
ing  tears,  that  had  hung  heavily  upon  these  jetty  lashes, 
stole  gently  down  her  cheeks.  She  looked  a  gorgeous j 
but  not  a  happy  woman. 


MARGUERITE.  125 

"Madame  !"  said  Ninon,  who  had  been  absent  from 
the  room  more  than  an  hour,  and,  on  returning,  found 
her  lady  in  the  position  she  had  left  her :  ''  Madame  ! 
will  it  please  you  to  dress  ?" 

The  marchioness  rose  from  her  seat  without  speak- 
ing ;  but,  when  Ninon  had  nearly  finished  her  toilet, 
she  noted  that  her  lady  sighed,  as  if  from  the  depths  of 
her  heart,  and  said,  "  Poor  child  !"  Ninon  could  not 
think,  for  her  life,  what  "  child"  she  thought  of. 

There  is  a  depth  of  deKcate  and  poetic  beauty  in 
making  a  crown  of  roses  the  reward  of  female  virtue 
and  loveliness,  which  confers  the  distinction  of  a  pure 
and  exquisitely  toned  mind  on  the  worthy  bishop  who 
introduced  the  custom  at  Salency. 

The  marchioness,  accustomed  to  the  artificial  pomp 
of  town-made  assemblies,  was  not  at  all  prepared  for 
the  joy  and  harmony  of  the  happy  fete.  The  sunny  air 
of  sunny  France — the  smiles  and  blushes  of  the  maidens 
appointed  to  attend  their  rural  queen — the  earnest  and 
dehghted  aspect  of  the  multitude,  proud  of  La  Rosiere 
and  proud  of  the  national  festival — the  music — the  con- 
secration of  the  garland  within  the  walls  of  the  chapel 
of  Saint  Medard — the  enthusiasm  of  the  people,  when 
La  Rosiere  re-appeared  in  the  open  air,  a  crowned 
queen,  without  care  or  sorrow — all  combined  to  create 
in  the  mind  of  the  "great  lady  of  Salency"  sensations 
which  she  had  never  before  experienced.  The  peasantry 
11 


126  -  friendship's    offering. 

of  the  neighboarhood  had  been  invited  to  partake  of  her 
bounty  in  the  gardens  of  her  chateau  ;  and  she  was 
seated,  after  the  termination  of  the  ceremony,  ready  to 
receive  them.  The  rose  queen,  followed  by  her  attend- 
ants and  the  venerable  priest,  advanced,  to  render  the 
respect  which  her  rank,  beauty,  '  and  generosity 
demanded.  Marguerite  paused,  as  if  afraid  to  approach 
too  near :  the  marchioness  rose  to  her,  and,  as  the 
maiden  bent  lowly  before  her,  she  raised,  for  a  moment, 
the  crown  from  her  beautiful  head,  and  cast  her  eyes 
to  the  earth  to  conceal  the  emotions  with  which  she 
struggled. 

"  Bless — bless  you,  dearest  girl !"    she  murmured, 
dropping  the  coronet  on  her  brows.     "  Bless  you,  for 


!" 


ever ! 


The  night  of  that  festival  is  talked  of  in  Salency  to 
this  day.  Early  as  the  peasants  of  France  usually 
seek  repose,  still  earher  did  the  marchioness  seek  her 
chamber.  Loudly  did  she  ring  her  silver  bell,  but  no 
one  answered.  Men  and  women  were  all  at  the  festival, 
little  expecting  their  lady  would  retire  so  early. 

The  sun  flung  his  beams  upon  the  tapestried  walls, 
and  the  ancestors  of  that  noble  house  looked  down  from 
their  pictured  monuments  upon  one  who,  till  that  day, 
had  believed  herself  the  last  of  her  noble  race.     She 


,        MARGUERITE.     •  127 

had  thrown  open  one  of  the  casements  of  the  great 
gallery,  and  stood  opposite  to  the  setting  sun.  Her 
eagle  eyes  undauntedly  gazed  upon  his  glory.  She 
watched  until  all  his  rays  appeared  concentrated  in  one 
mighty  ball  of  crimson  fire,  that  majestically  descended 
the  firmament,  leaving  its  golden  trail  upon  countless 
multitudes  of  clouds,  to  tell  where  he  had  been ; — she 
watched  until  those  clouds  paled  in  the  soft  night  air, 
and  then  she  rang  again ;  but  the  echo  of  her  bell  was 
the  only  answer  she  received. 

"I  can  support  it  no  longer,"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
will  seek  the  priest  myself ;  he,  doubtless,  knows  what- 
ever is  to  be  known  of  this  mysterious  girl." 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

It  was  the  deep  and  holy  hour  of  midnight :  a  lamp 
of  the  purest  alabaster  burned  upon  a  golden  table,  but 
its  light  was  so  subdued,  that  you  could  see  the  soft 
moon  shed  its  calm  and  silver  rays  upon  the  self-same 
objects  which,  a  few  hours  before,  had  been  burnished 
by  the  golden  sun.  The  pastor  of  Salency  was  seated 
opposite  the  marchioness,  but  at  that  moment  she 
looked  neither  proud  nor  gorgeous.  She  was  weeping 
an  abundance  of  heavy  tears ;  her  bosom  heaved,  and 
at  intervals  her  sobs  replied  to  the  night  breeze  which 
sighed  among  the  trees. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt,  good  father,"  she  said  at 


138 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


•last;  "I  felt  the  impulse,  though  I  could  not  account 
for  it.  I  knew  my  sister  had  a  child ;  but  whether  it 
died  with  her  or  lived,  I  could  not  tell.  Father,  I  do 
hope  for  mercy ;  but  I  did  not  render  it.  The  case 
was  this.  Both  my  sister  and  myself  both  loved  St. 
Vallery :  he  loved  well  in  return,  but  it  was  not  me  ! 
He  loved  my  sister  Marguerite.  She  laughed  at  the 
ruin  of  my  hopes,  and  married  him.  May  God  forgive 
me ;  but,  though  six  months  after,  I  wedded  a  right 
noble  husband,  and  a  rich,  while  St.  Vallery  was  but 
one  of  the  poor  soldiers  of  a  blighted  fortune,  I  envied, 
and  I  hated  that  poor  sister; /or  I  loved  him  still.  'Tis 
my  confession,  father ;  I  hope  to  expiate  my  crime.  He 
died  in  youth  and  poverty,  but  not  in  shame.  He  was 
gallant,  noble-hearted — even  now  I  cannot  think  of 
him r." 

Again  she  bent  her  head  and  wept ;  and  the  priest 
pondered  on  the  strangeness  of  that  love  which,  sinful 
as  it  was,  outhved  the  glittering  prosperity  that  often 
cankers  the  affections  and  eats  up  the  heart  by  slow 
but  sure  degrees. 

"  My  sister  came,  and  clasped  my  knees,  and  prayed 
that  I  would  give  her  food.  She  came  alone;  if  she 
had  brought  his  child,  I  should  have  forgotten  it  was 
hers.  And  then  I  laughed  at  her,  as  she  had  laughed 
at  me !" 


MARGUERITE.  129 

The  pastor  wondered  in  his  simplicity  how  any  thing 
so  beautiful  could  be  so  cruel. 

"  She  died,  you  say,  while  passing  through  this 
village,"  continued  the  marchioness :  "  his  parents 
lived,  I  heard,  somewhere  in  Picardy." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  priest ;  "  she  arrived,  fainting  and 
foot-sore,  at  the  cottage  I  told  you  of;  and  pressing  her 
child  to  her  bosom,  slept — but  woke  no  more.  We 
knew  not  who  she  was  ;  but  all  Salency  loved  the 
child.  The  relics,  her  husband's  picture,  (which 
poverty  could  not  wrench  from  her,)  were  pressed  upon 
her  heart.  You  say  you  know  the  tokens  I  have 
shown  you." 

*<A11,  all!"  she  answered:  "And  now  I  am  not 
alone  in  this  wide  world.  Let  me  send  for  her  to-night, 
good  sir— let  me  send  for  her  to-night — she  is  mine ! 
She  shall  be  rich  and  happy,  and  so  shall  those  who 
succoured  her.     She  will  not  know  how  I  — ." 

Again  she  was  obhged  to  suffer  the  sentence  to  remain 
unfinished ;  and  the  kind  priest  sympathised  with  that 
deep  anguish  which  is  born  of  sin. 
•  *'  Oh  !  if  you  could  but  know  how  I  have  suffered  !" 
she  continued;  "  husbandless,  childless;  the  wide  and 
dismal  feel  of  being  quite  alone.  Gold  is  a  cold  com- 
panion to  the  heart.  I  tried  to  fill  up  mine,  as  others 
do ;  but  when  I  looked  into  myself,  there  was  an  aching 

void.     Do  you  think  she  will  love  me,  father ?" 

11* 


130  friendship's   offering. 

There  was  a  moisture  in  the  good  priest's  eyes ;  and 
his  hps  trembled  at  the  simple  and  natural  question. 
The  virtue  and  excellence  of  Marguerite  had  been 
declared ;  But  she  little  dreamed,  sweet  girl,  as  she 
slept  that  night  upon  her  cottage  pillow,  of  the  jewelled 
coronet  that  was  to  replace  the  flower  crown  of  La 
Rosiere. 


11' Gil  V.   rrff- Y  .rosffidi)  w 


^ 


THE    PET    PIGEON. 

BY    AN    OLD    BACHELOR. 

And  so,  because  I  occasionally  write  a  story  which 
finds  its  way  into  print,  instead  of  being  discreetly 
committed  to  the  study  coal-grate — that  purifying  re- 
ceptacle in  which  two-thirds  of  the  crude  creations  of 
the  modem  brain  might  be  most  profitably  digested 
—nothing  that  I  can  produce,  in  the  way  of  a  new- 
year's  memento,  will  satisfy  my  fair  young  friend 
except  "aw  articled  Oh,  Muses! — That  such  a  pair 
of  strawberry  Hps  should  give  utterance  to  the  formi- 
dable word! 

"An  article!" — Why,  the  very  word  reminds  one  of 
the  clatter,  buzz,  and  hissing  of  the  power-press — ^that 
intellectual  mill  in  which  old  ideas  are  ground  to 
powder  and  kneaded  into  mental  dough,  preparatory  to 
being  divided  by  the  editorial  scissors  into  penny  loaves, 
and  sixpenny  loaves — that  mill  in  which  thought,  like 
wheaten  flour,  loses  a  moiety  of  nutritive  properties  in 
the  attempt  to  render  it  "extra  super-super  XXX."  to 


134  friendship's    offering. 

gratify  the  vicious  taste  of  a  public  ever  ready  to  com- 
pensate itself  for  the  defective  quality  of  its  daily  food, 
by  a  proportionate  increase  of  its  quantity,  provided 
only,  that  the  material  be  perfectly  uniform  in  texture 
and  utterly  devoid  of  colour,  according  to  the  approved 
rules  of  modern  refinement. 

Well !  And  what  is  to  be  the  subject  of  the  "article ?" 
When  the  heavenly  Nine  undertake  the  business  of 
miUing  upon  commission,  it  is  expected,  of  course,  that 
their  customers  will  supply  the  grain  to  be  thrown  into 
the  hopper.  Semper  paratus  is  the  proudest  motto  of 
the  hero  of  the  pen,  as  well  as  the  hero  of  the  sword ; 
so,  as  I  needs  must  act  as  foreman  to  the  Heliconic 
Sisters,  upon  this  important  occasion,  bring  in  the  grist, 
my  pretty  maiden,  and  I  will  do  the  best  I  can  with 
it ;  although  the  days  when  Albums  were  considered 
the  orthodox  granaries  of  pointless  and  over-poHshed 
nothings  have  long  been  passed ; — the  monthlies  having 
obtained  a  species  of  patent-right  in  this  branch  of  trade 
of  latter  years ; — no  matter ! — what  is  to  be  the  subject  ? 

Your  "httle  pet  pigeon!"  Nay;  this  is  actually  too 
cruel.  What  new  idea  can  be  possibly  expressed 
upon  a  theme  already  exhausted  by  the  united  genius 
of  all  the  rhymesters  of  every  age  and  country,  from 
the  primal  moment  when  the  great  father  of  our  race 
improvised  his  earHest  sonnet  to  the  first-bom  of  thy 
sex  ?    That  accident  occurred,  as  I  presume,  just  as  he 


THE     PET     PIGEON.  135 

woke  with  a  peculiar  pain  about  the  left  side  of  the 
chest,  which  is  still  renewed  with  all  his  progeny, 
whenever  the  bright  glance  of  a  woman's  eye  awakens 
the  vulture  gnawing  at  the  heart,  or,  as  the  ignorant 
ancients  thought,  (what  wonder,  when  those  ancients 
centered  the  affections  in  the  stomach!)  the  liver — of 
every  young  Prometheus,  until  he  marries.  Since  Eve 
gave  entrance  to  this  troublesome  guest,  through  the 
hole-in-the-side  from  which  she  sprung,  woman  has 
monopolized  the  type  of  innocence  as  a  stool  pigeon, 
while  the  bird  of  prey  remains  with  us. 

But  do  not  frown  at  this  picture.  I  acknowledge 
the  punishment  just.  Eve  and  her  descendants  have 
troubles  enough  of  their  own ;  and  even  to  this  day,  the 
representatives  of  Adam,  when  things  go  wrong  at 
home  or  abroad,  still  lay  the  blame  of  their  own  weak- 
ness on  "the  woman."  Adam  should  have  taught  her 
better,  or,  failing  in  that  duty,  he  should  have  borne 
the  penalty  without  complaint.  I  have  but  Httle  sym-  - 
pathy  with  the  unmanly  cowardice  of  his  attempted 
defence,  and  my  chief  regret  is,  that  grey  hairs  and 
Time's  plough-share  have  made  me  what  few  of  the 
fair  sisterhood  would  think  it  worth  their  while  to 
tempt  or  to  deceive.  Said  I  ''few?"  My  looking-glass 
says — none.  Perhaps  it  wants  resilvering.  But,  touch- 
ing this  ''Article:"  must  it  be  indited  in  prose  or 
verse? 


136 


"In  poetry,"  you  say; — in  metre,  I  presume  you 
mean,  and  thank  you  for  the  selection.  While  wooing 
continues  to  chime  with  cooing,  nothing  will  be  easier 
than  to  rhyme  upon  this  text,  from  morning  dawn  until 
the  witching  hour 

" When  day-light  dies, 

r  In  softened  radiance  o'er  the  burning  west." 

In  witness  whereof,  (to  use  the  language  of  one 
profession),  I  will  write  you  a  prescription,  (to  use  the 
language  of  another.) 

Gather  the  proper  number  of  Hearts  and  Darts — 
Loves  and  Doves — Streams  and  Dreams — Fly's  and  Dies 
— Guesses  and  Yesses — Domes  and  Homes — Kisses 
and  Blisses;  all  ''sold  wholesale  and  retail,  by  Lusi- 
anni,  (now  Giovanni,)  Market  street,  Philadelphia." 
At  least  they  were  thus  obtainable  in  the  days  when 

Bearded  men  called  me  a  promising  boy. 
And  I  frowned  to  be  called  so  by  them. 

Detach  these  elements  of  the  legitimate  sonnet  from 
the  delicate  little  pieces  of  lemon  candy  hid  beneath  their 
paper  folds  Hke  the  nectarine  of  a  flower  in  the  labyrinth 
of  its  petals.  Chp  off  the  redundant  expletives  and  in- 
terjections with  which  the  aforesaid  Giovanni  ornaments 
tljem ;  then  add  a  few  nouns,  and  about  twice  the  number 
of  adjectives.    Triturate  the  whole  thoroughly  in  a  mor- 


THE     PET     PIGEON.  137 

tar ;  dust  over  the  mixture  quant,  suff.  of.the  other  parts 
of  speech,  to  render  the  mass  adhesive ;  moisten  it  vsrith  a 
little  of  the  essence  of  sentiment,  diluted  with  ten  times 
its  vreight  of  milk  and  water ;  and  divide  into  fourteen 
equal  parts.  Direct  the  patient  to  take  the  whole  at 
one  dose. 

"Come  sit  thee  down,  my  bonny,  bonny  lass, 
Come  sit  thee  down  by  me,  love;" 

And  let  us  try  the  experiment.  Toss  in  the  ingre- 
dients !  There  ;  pound,  pound,  pound, — ruh,  rub,  rub ! 
Gather  the  mass — roll  it  out  to  the  desired  length — 
divide  it  into  fourteen  parts — range  them  in  any  order 
— rhyming  never  goes  wrong  in  a  sonnet,  the  example 
of  the  most  approved  poetasters  of  the  age  having  led 
to  the  final  repeal  of  all  classic  laws  on  this  subject, 
and  as  for  reason,  there  is  no  room  for  that  in  a  love 
ditty.     Now,  behold  the  result ! 


SONNET. 

Come  thou,  and  be  to  me,  that  gentle  dove. 
My  Emma,  fondled  to  my  cheek  and  heart ! 
Then  shall  no  tear  of  thine  from  blighted  dream, 
Swell  the  rough  current  of  Time's  troubled  stream. 
A  power  unseen  shall  guard  thee  from  the  dart 
Of  stern  misfortune,  in  a  cloud  of  love ; 
Till  thou  shalt  own  that  from  my  arms  to  fly, 
As  were  that  dove  from  thine — would  be  to  die ! 


138  friendship's    offering. 

Smile  you^  my  Emma? — Maiden !    Few  can  guess 

Wiio,  born  in  humble  cot  or  stately  dome, 
Have  whispered  'neath  the  moon  their  trembling  "  Yes," 
What  charms  shall  centre  in  our  quiet  home, 
Where  heaven  decrees  that  thou,  with  love's  warm  kiss, 
Shall  seal  the  bond  of  years — long  years  of  waking  bliss. 

There,  now  ;  the  task  is  done  akeady  !  And  Emma, 
as  no  one  will  ever  beheve  that  an  old  bachelor  like 
myself  can  have  been  inspired  w*ith  half  the  good 
sense  which  has  found  its  way,  in  spite  of  the  chance 
medley  of  the  material,  into  our  patent  "Article,"  you 
may  safely  regard  it  as  oracular.  The  inspiration  is 
from  the  Muses,— the  principals  of  the  firm, — and  not 
from  their  humble  agent  in  dealings  with  the  aforesaid 
Giovanni,  Confectioner,  Market  street,  Philadelphia. 
A  word  in  your  ear  then  : — He  who  speaks  has  made 
much  observation  on  these  matters,  and  will  give  you 
three  important  rules  in  relation  to  matrimony,  that 
have  been  too  generally  omitted  by  novel  writers  and 
moral  writers  on  the  tender  passion. 

Should  a  lover  ever  kneel  to  you,  amuse  yourself 
with  him :  he  is  a  fool,  and  one,  too,  who  deserves  no 
consideration  in  his  folly  ;  for,  either  he  fails  to  respect 
himself' — and  what  claim  has  such  an  one  to  the  respect 
of  woman— -or  else  he  lacks  respect  for  you,  and  has 
the  grossness  to  expose  the  fact — thus  •  losing  every 
title  to  your  charity. 

Should  any  one  seek  to  win  you  by  rich  presents 


THE     PET     PIGEON.  139 

and  attentions  of  the  more  imposing  class,  playing 
love's  music  in  the  condescending  key — some  minion 
of  fashion  or  of  wealth — refer  him  to  papa :  He  is  the 
man  of  business  of  the  family. 

Should  modest  merit  hold  itself  aloof — and  modest 
merit  may  sometimes  be  met  with,  although  most 
adages  are  founded  in  untruth — then  call  in  the  assist- 
ance of  mamma ;  The  case  requires  Jinesse,  and  she 
is  the  politician  of  the  domestic  circle. 

But  should  some  gallant  youth — upright,  respectful, 
but  unflinchingly  self-confident — approach  with  lan- 
guage kind  and  bold,  such  as  thy  sonnet  breathes,  and 
beckon  thee  away,  then  ask  no  counsellor  but  thy  own 
dove-Hke  heart.  Whatever  aged  experience  may  utter 
in  defence  of  wisdom  and  authority,  the  higher  powers 
still  smile  at  human  forethought ;  and  when  a  man, 
that  is  indeed  a  man,  sees  that  which  Heaven  has 
formed  in  truth  for  him — he  takes  it,  let  who  will  dis- 
pute the  prize !  Alas !  this  happy  fate  occurs  to  one 
in  thousands ! 


12 


THE    FUNERAL   OF   ST.   COLUxMBA. 

A  TALE  OF  THE  SIXTEENTH   CENTURY. 

To  make  the  following  narrative  duly  intelligible  to 
readers  who  have  paid  little  attention  to  the  early  cha- 
racter of  Britons,  it  will  be  necessary  to  give  some 
account  of  -the  gambols  conducted  by  a  very  popular 
personage,  known  in  England  by  the  designation  of  the 
Lord  of  Misrule,  and  in  Scotland  called  the  Abbot  of 
Unreason.  The  irregularities  and  outrages  perpetrated 
under  that  disguise  became  so  flagrant,  that,  by  an  act 
of  the  Scottish  parliament,  during  the  reign  of  Queen 
Mary,  in  1555,  the  Abbot  of  Unreason  and  his  sports 
incurred  a  heavy  censure  and  rigid  prohibition.  Under 
James  the  Fifth,  the  sons  of  noblemen  often  assumed 
the  lead  in  those  revels ;  and  it  is  said  the  king  did  not 
disdain  to  personate  the  gamesome  Abbot,  who  was 
always  selected  according  to  the  advantages  of  com- 
manding stature,  inventive  fancy,  frolic,  and  enterprise ; 
but  his  real  quality  was  a  secret  confided  only  to  his 
guards.     The  guizars,  as  they  are  named,  who  go  at 


THE    FUNERAL    OF    ST.    COLUMBA.  141 

Christmas  from  house  to  house,  in  all  the  towns  of 
Scotland,  are  supposed  to  be  a  slight  remainder  of  the 
custom  we  are  describing.  The  body-guards  of  the 
Abbot  of  Unreason  were  all  arrayed  in  gaudy  colours, 
bedecked  with  gold  or  silver  lace  ;  with  embroidery  and 
silken  scarfs,  the  fringed  ends  of  which  floated  in  the 
winds.  They  wore  chains  of  gold,  or  baser  metal 
gilded,  aiid  glittering  with  mock  jewels.  Their  legs 
were  adorned  and  rendered  voluble  by  links  of  shining 
metal,  hung  with  many  bells  of  the  same  material, 
twining  from  the  ancle  of  their  buskins  to  their  silken 
garters ;  and  each  flourished  in  his  hand  a  rich  silk 
handkerchief  brocaded  over  with  flowers.  This  was 
the  garb  of  fifty  or  more  youths  who  encircled  the 
person  of  the  leader.  They  were  surrounded  by  ranks, 
six  or  more  in  depth,  consisting  of  tall,  brawny,  fierce- 
visaged  men,  covered  with  crimson  or  purple  velvet 
bonnets,  and  nodding  plumes  of  the  eagle,  the  hawk, 
or  branches  of  pine,  yew,  oak,  fern,  boxwood,  or  flower- 
ing heath.  Their  jerkins  were  always  of  a  hue  that 
might  attract  the  eye  of  ladies  in  the  bower,  or  serving- 
damsels  at  the  washing-green ;  they  had  breeches  of 
immense  capacity,  so  padded  or  stuffed  as  to  make  each 
man  occupy  the  space  of  five,  in  their  natural  propor- 
tions ;  and  in  this  seeming  soft  raiment  they  concealed 
weapons  of  defence  or  offence,  with  which  to  arm 
themselves  and  the  body-guard,  if  occasion  called  for 


142  friendship's    offering. 

resistance.  To  appearance,  they  had  no  ohject  but 
careless  sport  and  glee  ;  some  playing  on  the  Scottish 
harp,  others  blowing  the  bagpipes,  or  beating  targets, 
fot  drums,  and  jingling  bells.  Whenever  the  proces- 
sion halted,  they  danced,  flourishing  about  the  banners 
of  their  leader.  The  exterior  bands  perhaps  repre- 
sented, in  dumb  show,  or  pantomime,  the  actions  of 
warriors,  or  the  wildest  buffoonery;  and  those  were 
followed' by  crowds,  who,  with  all  the  grimaces  and 
phrases  of  waggery,  solicited  money  or  garniture  from 
the  nobles  and  gentry  that  came  to  gaze  upon  them* 
Wherever  they  appeared,  multitudes  joined  them ; 
some  for  th©  sake  of  jollity,  and  not  a  few  to  have  their 
fate  predicted  by  spae-wives,  warlocks,  and  interpreters 
of  dreams,  who  invariably  were  found  in  the  train  of 
the  Abbot  of  Unreason. 

A  family,  once  illustrious  among  the  heroes  and 
legislators  of  Scotia,  but  now  fallen  into  decay,  have 
preserved  a  remarkable  tradition  concerning  the  troub- 
lous times  of  the  Reformation  in  that  country.  About 
the  end  of  May,  in  1569,  the  Abbot  of  Unreason,  ac- 
coutred as  already  depicted,  and  accompanied  by  a 
retinue  in  the  usual  style,  appeared  on  the  outer  verge 
of  a  moat  which  encompassed  a  baronial  castle  in  the 
southwest  of  Scotland.  During  twelve  years,  this  isola- 
-ted  fortress  had  denied  access  to  every  stranger.  If 
travellers  by   land,   or  shipwrecked  mariners,  sought 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  ST.  COLUMBA.  .       143 

refuge  in  the  hospitality  of  the  chief,  they  were  re- 
manded to  a  tower,  erected  on  a  rocky  peninsula, 
within  view  of  the  frowning  battlements  of  the  castle, 
where  the  Baron  had  twenty  aged,  yet  robust  men, 
waiting  to  administer  relief;  and  the  applicants  were 
awfully  premonished  that,  if  they  transgressed  a  certain 
boundary,  summary  execution  must  be  their  doom. 
The  Abbot  of  Unreason  could  not  have  obtained  an 
approach  so  near,  unless  the  lord  of  the  castle  had  been 
at  St.  Columba,  paying  the  last  duties  to  his  mother. 
The  inmates  had  heard  much  of  the  Abbot  of  Unreason, 
and  were  dehghted  at  this  opportunity  of  seeing  him, 
and  sharing  in  the -diversions  created  by  his  blithesome 
retainers.  Above  all,  they  were  eager  to  penetrate  the 
veil  of  dim  futurity,  to  be  drawn  aside  by  the  seers  of 
both  sexes,  who,  invested  with  peculiar  insignia  of 
solemn  grandeur,  composed  the  outskirts  of  this  itine- 
rant exhibition.  As  the  Baron  could  not  return  from 
St.  Columba  in  less  than  seven  days,  though  wind  and 
weather  should  be  propitious,  the  waiting  maidens  of 
the  young  lady,  his  daughter,  did  not  despair  of  elud- 
ing the  vigilance  of  seven  aged  women,  and  thrice 
seven  aged  men,  on  whom  devolved  the  government  of 
the  keep,  in  absence  of  the  rightful  lord.  About  sun- 
set, the  Abbot  and  his  gorgeous  court  arranged  them- 
selves in  view  of  the  balcony.  The  lady  Dulsibella,  in 
ecstacy,  called  upon  her  favourite  damsel. 
12* 


144-  friendship's   offering. 

"Alice!  good  Alice !  I  have  heard  and  read  about 
visions  of  angels,  and  now,  in  living  forms,  they  greet 
my  admiring  eyes." 

"My  lady,"  responded  Alice,  "these  are  no  angels, 
but  mortal,  and  it  may  be,  sinful,  though  truly  very 
handsome  young  men." 

"  Never  tell  me  so,  Alice,"  said  the  lady;  "nothing 
human  could  be  so  beautiful.  Oh,  how  unhke  the 
blear-eyed,  grey-bearded,  wrinkled  men  that  serve  my 
father !     Even  he  is  not  so  handsome  as  these." 

"  Dear  lady,  my  lord  the  Baron  is  not  young,  and 
his  serving-meil  are  old  and  withered,  yea,  almost  de- 
crepid,"  replied  Ahce.  "Remember,  I  humbly  beg, 
my  lady,  that  I  have  been  at  Edinburgh,  where  the 
creatures  you  are  pleased  to  call  angels  are  as  common 
as  leaves  on  the  trees  of  yonder  wood,  and  often  as 
mischievous  as  the  wasps  that  hinder  us  from  walking 
under  the  green  shade." 

"  That  may  be,"  said  Dulsibella,  sighing.  "  I  know 
little,  and  have  seen  less  of  the  world  than  you,  Ahce. 
My  dear,  my  honoured,  lamented  grandmother !  to  her 
I  owed  all  the  information  I  possess." 

"  But  I  warrant  you,  my  lady,"  thought  Alice,  "the 
old  Baroness  did  not  tell  you  half  of  what  I  could  say 
about  the  rogues  that  have  caught  your  eye." 

Her  flippant  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by  observing 
the  lady  Dulsibella  dissolved  in  tears.    She  would  have 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  ST.  COLUMBA.         145 

offered  the  best  consolation  she  could  think  of,  but  Dul- 
sibella  hastily  retired  to  her  bower,  beckoning  Alice  to 
follow.  She  heard  the  old  men  and  women  ascending 
to  the  balcony,  and  wished  to  shun  them.  These  do- 
mestics sincerely  loved  their  young  lady,  yet  they  re- 
pined that  she  was  not  of  the  other  sex,  and  her  father's 
behaviour  emboldened  them  to  consider  her  as  their 
prisoner,  or  rather  as  a  child  committed  to  their  watch- 
ful control.  With  mild  dignity  she  avoided  coming 
into  contact  so  wounding  to  her  self-respect,  and  with 
feminine  delicacy,  yet  firm  resolution,  taught  'them  to 
bend  before  her  just  claim  to  superiority.  As  they 
reached  the  balcony,  they  murmured  aloud  their  griev- 
ances. "  You  gave  us  a  comfortable  dinner,  Mrs. 
Housekeeper,"  said  the  steward;  "and  if  my  lord  had 
not  taken  a  stingy  fit  and  carried  off  the  keys,  I  should 
have  crowned  the  feast  with  flowing  cups  of  his  best 
wine." 

<<  The  saints  fore  fend  that  I  should  say  my  lord  has 
ta'en  a  stingy  fit !"  said  a  demure,  upright,  skinny- 
lipped  spinster,  foster-sister  to  the  Baron.  <^  But  I 
cannot  take  it  well  that  he  seems  to  fear  we  might 
not  take  due  care  of  his  daughter,  unless  he  deprives 
us  of  the  drop  of  liquor  allowed  to  all  the  servants  in 
braid  Scotland. 

"  I  would  not  wonder  though  the  lady  Dulsibella 
should,  poor  dear !  try  to  get  out  of  this  dismal' prison," 


146  friendship's   offering. 

said  the  housekeeper.  "  For  my  share,  I  believe  no 
natural  spirits  can  hold  out  against  the  foggy  sky  and 
chilly  sea  air,  if  a  cordial  from  the  cellar  did  not  help 
to  throw  off  the  vapours." 

"  Bless  my  two  eyes,  and  grant  they  don't  deceive 
me !"  interrupted  the  master  cook.  ^'  Sure  as  flame 
flies  upward,  there  comes  a  hearty  fellow,  leading  a 
shelty  along  the  narroiV^  path  that  goes  across  the  moat, 
and  his  beast  carries  panniers,  Hk«  those  we  get  with 
pitchers  of  brandy." 

All  bustled  down  stairs  to  meet  the  messenger,  who 
presented  several  pitchers  of  brandy,  in  the  name  of 
the  Abbot  of  Unreason,  craving  leave  to  cut  oak 
branches  to  adorn  the  bonnets  of  his  train.  The  stew- 
ard readily  accorded  the  boon,  but  insisted  that  the 
messenger  should  try  whether  the  venison,  moor-game, 
and  hill  beef,  of  the  lower  hall  in  the  castle,  were  not 
fit  companions  for  his  brandy.  The  shelty  was  led  to 
the  stable  to  regale  on  hay  and  oats,  and  the  worthies 
of  the  inferior  hall  were  again  seated  to  do  the  honours 
of  convivial  hospitality  to  their  very  welcome  visitant. 
Each  was  desirous  to  be  entertaining ;  and  after  a  few 
glasses  of  brandy,  all  were  abundantly  communicative. 
The  brandy-ambassador  gleaned  information,  that  the 
Jady  Dulsibella  was  the  youngest,  and  now  the  only 
child  of  the  Baron.  His  deceased  lady  had  brought 
him  many  sons  and  daughters ;  but  the  small-pox,  with 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  ST.  COLUMBA.         U7 

many  other  maladies  and  casualties,  sent  them  to  early- 
graves,  except  the  young  lady,  their  charge,  and  the 
eldest  son,  a  brave  warrior  in  early  youth,  who,  at 
Solway  Moss,  adhered  to  his  sovereign,  and  defended 
the  royal  banner,  when  men  grown  grey  under  arms 
preferred  party-spirit  to  loyalty  and  patriotism.  The 
Baron  was  severely  wounded  in  the  first  onset ;  but  his 
gallant  son  covered  his  body,  until  some  followers  re- 
moved him  to  a  place  of  safety.  The  young  hero  was 
slain,  and  his  father  never  after  held  up  his  head,  until 
the  Baroness  gave  another  child  to  his  affections.  No 
sublunary  blessing  comes  without  its  alloy.  The  Baron 
discovered  that  his  lady  was  a  convert  to  the  tenets  of 
Luther,  and,  instigated  by  a  bigoted  confessor,  treated 
her  with  a  severity  that  shortened  her  Hfe  :  she  survi- 
ved the  birth  of  her  daughter  only  a  few  months.  The 
Baron's  mother,  a  high-descended  lady,  of  uncommon 
strength  of  mind  and  unconquerable  spirit,  came  to  su- 
perintend the  physicians  and  sick-nurses  employed  for 
her  daughter-in-law,  whom  she  found  more  dutiful 
than  the  Baron,  her  own  offspring.  She  also  had  em- 
braced the  doctrines  of  the  Reformation ;  but,  protected 
by  her  grandnephew,  the  Earl  of  Murray,  and  possess- 
ing more  wealth  than  any  dowager  in  the  kingdom,  the 
displeasure  or  good  graces  of  her  son  gave  her  no  con- 
cern, while  duty  and  policy  enjoined  him  to  conciliate 
her  favour.     When  his  lady  was  no  more,  the  Baron, 


148 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


alike  vehement  in  resenting  her  irreclaimable  aposta(?y, 
and  anxious  to  atone  for  the  unkindness  that  sent  her 
prematurely  to  the  tomb,  consumed  his  days  and  nights 
in  penances  or  in  prayers  for  her  soul,  and  in  beseech- 
ing the  Blessed  Virgin  to  avert  from  Scotland  that  phi- 
losophic temerity,  which  menaced  a  total  extinction  of 
the  pious  ardour,  that  through  ages  had  exalted  and 
enriched  the  Holy  Mother  Church.  He  grew  weary 
of  the  world,  and  withdrew  to  the  sequestered  castle, 
where  Dulsibella  blossomed  and  bloomed  into  match- 
less beauty  and  attainments,  under  the  fostering  tender- 
ness and  assiduity  of  her  grandmother.  The  priest 
who  recommended  this  seclusion,  flattered  himself  that 
a  few  years  would  terminate  the  mortal  pilgrimage  of 
the  old  Baroness,  and  that  Dulsibella  would  fall  to  the 
disposal  of  her  popish  relatives ;  but  Providence  mer- 
cifully prolonged  the  years  of  this  illustrious  female, 
until  Dulsibella  reached  the  age  of  seventeen.  The 
dying  Baroness  had  committed  her  child,  as  a  sacred 
trust,  to  her  grandmother;  and  she  saw  no  material 
objection  to  a  retiteat  from  the  vicinity  of  a  court,  where 
she  perceived  with  horror  the  prevalence  of  dissimula- 
tion and  frenchified  manners,  that  would  perhaps  un- 
dermine the  principles  of  rehgion  and  morals  she  was 
anxious  to  implant,  cherish,  and  establish,  in  the  heart 
of  her  charge.  She  .  had,  besides,  a  young  relation  to 
whom, she  wished  to  intrust  the  present   and  future 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  ST.  COLUMBA.         149 

happiness  of  Dulsibella.  Lord  Glenonan  had  volun- 
teered his  aid  to  the  Hollanders  against  the  supersti- 
tious tyranny  of  Spain.  His  command  of  money  and 
his  valorous  services  had  essentially  promoted  the  tri- 
umph of  the  Protestant  cause  in  the  Netherlands.  He 
had  returned  to  Scotland,  crowned  with  unfading 
laurels,  about  the  time  that  the  aged  Baroness  was 
seized  with  her  last  illness.  By  her  own  express  de- 
sire she  was  interred  at  St.  Columba — a  strange  ap- 
pointment by  a  Protestant,  but  not  without  a  right 
motive,  as  will  soon  appear  in  relating  its  consequences. 
Having  given  a  summary  of  the  particulars  collected 
from  her  jovial  domestics,  we  shall  follow  the  lady 
Dulsibella  to  her  bower.  Alice  had  views  of  her  own 
to  accomphsh,  and  she  asked  leave  to  go  for  a  draught 
of  fresh  water.  The  length  of  her  absence  was  unno- 
ticed by  Dulsibella,  while  melancholy  thoughts  of  her 
own  situation  engrossed  her  attention.  She  knew  that 
she  was  regarded  as  a  heretic  by  her  father  and  all 
around  him ;  yet  she  felt  a  firm  conviction,  that  to  sur- 
render life  itself  in  defer^fce  of  her  religious  opinions 
was  a  bounden  duty.  During  the  existence  of  her 
grandmother,  none  dared  to  question  her ;  there  seemed 
to  be  a  tacit  compact  on  both  sides  not  to  agitate  inqui- 
ries that  could  end  only  in  discord ;  but  the  restraining 
spirit  had  ascended  to  happier  regions,  and  she  dreaded 
some    terrible  concussion  when  her  father    returned'. 


150  friendship's   offering. 

Her   grandmother  indeed   had   assured  her  she  had 
taken  effectual  measures  to  save  her  from  prosecution. 

<< By  what  means?"  asked  the  weeping, -yet  deter- 
mined martyr. 

The  Baroness  was  too  much  debiHtated  to  make  ex- 
planations. Dulsibella  brushed  away  her  tears,  as  a 
hasty  step  broke  off  her  reverie.  Alice  appeared. 
<« My  lady!  my  dear  lady!'*  she  said,  "I  have  just 
met  the  brandy  messenger  on  the  stairs  going  t^way. 
He  has  made  the  old  folks  blind  drunk  ;  and  if  they 
attempt  to  move  before  they  take  a  nap  with  their 
muddled  heads  on  the  table,  they  must  fall  on  the  floor. 
They  never  observed  me  when  I  crept  into  the  ser- 
vants' hall,  and  took  the  key  of  the  wicket  off  the  por- 
ter's hook  behind  the  side-door.  I  got  out  from  the  old 
folks,  and  have  them  fast  locked  under  this  other  key. 
Now,  dear  lady,  if  you  would  condescend  to  disguise 
yourself  like  one  such  as  I,  we  might  all  go  to  the  Abbot 
of  Unreason,  and  get  our  fortunes  read  over  and  over, 
before  the  old  tipsy  fools  awake  from  their  heavy  sleep, 
side  by  side  where  they  sit." 

"Poor- souls,"  said  Dulsibella,  "want  of  employ- 
ment or  proper  amusement  has  led  them  to  kill  time 
ov&r  their  cupsi  Surely,  living  in  society  has  at  least 
one  advantage :  people  need  not  be  tempted  to  the 
abuse  or  oblivion  of  their  rational  faculties,  on  account 
of  a  deficiency  in  the  means  that  should  exercise  them." 


THE    FUNERAL    OF    ST.    COLUMBA.  151 

"  But,  my  dear  lady,  shotild  we  not  be  going  ?  One 
of  your  own  long^lawn  morning-dresses  and  your  own 
beautiful  ringlets  will  answer  charmingly  to  make  you 
pass  for  a  girl  such  as  I." 

Dulsibella  languidly  smiled  at  a  comparison  with  her 
waiting-damsel,  and  after  a  pause,  said  with  a  graver 
aspect  and  voice,  '<  I  will  gratify  you,  my  good  Alice, 
so  far  as  to  admit  some  of  the  fortune-tellers  by  the 
wicket.  I  have  no  objection  to  see  them  as  a  simple 
country  maid — more  simple  than  you,  Alice,  who,  till 
of  late  years,  lived  at  Edinburgh ;  but  I  will  not  dis- 
obey my  father  by  going  out  of  the  castle." 

*'  Then,  my  lady,"  returned  Alice  joyfully,  <*  I  shall 
run  to  overtake  the  brandy  messenger,  and  desire  him 
to  hurry  the  seers  to  your  presence." 

Ahce  ran,  though  she  well  knew  that  the  messenger, 
an  old  acquaintance,  waited  her  instructions.  The 
spae-wives,  warlocks,  and  interpreters  of  dreams,  soon 
assembled  in  the  armoury,  a  large  apartment  detached 
from  the  servants'  hall.  The  seers  of  futurity  were  led 
by  a  figure  of  stately  port,  clad  in  a  long  mantle  of 
black  velvet,  richly  embroidered.  He  accosted  Dulsi- 
bella as  a  rustic  maid,  professing  himself  to  be  a  lineal 
descendant  of  the  far-famed  sage  of  Ercildoun,  and  in 
that  quality,  must  converse  with  the  lady  of  the  castle. 
Whilst  all  the  damsels  were  engaged  in  Hstening  to 
predictions  flattering  to  their  wishes,  the  sage  drew  her 
13 


163  friendship's    offering. 

a  little  aside,  and  mentione'd  the  secret  history  of  her 
parents,  of  the  recently  deceased  Baroness,  and  herself, 
so  explicitly,  that  she  fully  helieved  in  his  pretensions 
to  superhuman  intelligence.  He  then  laid  hold  of  her 
arm,  to  draw  her  to  a  recess  at  a  great  distance  from 
her  attendants.  Dulsibella  gently,  yet  steadily,  reproved 
this  freedom.  He  said,  "Lady  Dulsibella! — Nay, 
start  not :  I  am  no  betrayer  of  confidence ;  and  may 
not  these  silvered  hairs,  this  grisly  beard,  flowing  even 
to  the  magic  girdle  bequeathed  by  the  sage  of  Ercil- 
doun — ^may  they  not.  dispel  thy  fears  ? — Compose  thy 
astonished  mind,  and  know,  that  though  in  visible  form 
I  never  beheld  thy  countenance,  each  beauteous  feature 
is  famiHar  to  my  admiration.  I  must  speak  with  thee 
in  private.     Thy  own  safety  urges  the  interview." 

He  took  a  lamp.  Dulsibella  opened  an  anteroom. 
Having  both  entered,  the  majestic  seer  closed  the  door, 
saying,  ''Are  we  overheard?  You  have  attempted 
one  imposition,  lady.  It  was  harmless.  But  now  to 
deceive  me  must  injure  yourself." 

Dulsibella  assured  him  they  had  no  auditor.  He 
took  a  packet  from  his  bosom,  and  while,  with  every 
varying  shade  of  complexion,  answering  to  her  perplex- 
ing state  of  mind,  the  lady  watched,  his  motions,  he  un- 
tied several  silken  strings  and  produced  a  letter. 

"Lady,"  he  resumed,  "know  you  the  hand-writing 
of  the  Earl  of  Murray?" 


THE    FUNERAL    OF    ST.    COLUMBA.  153 

<<  I  know  it  well.  His  Lordship's  correspondence 
with  my  grandmother,  the  late  Baroness,  was  by  her 
often  placed  in  my  hands." 

"My  mission  further  authorizes  me  to  inquire— do 
you  prize  liberty  of  conscience  ?  Would  you  desire  to 
avoid  the  sacred  vows  of  marriage  to  a  Roman  Catho- 
lic ?  Pardon  my  abrupt  and  brief  interrogatories.  Lady 
Dulsibella,  since   time   presses   and   is   teeming  with 


<^My  answer  shall  be  concise  and  peremptory. 
Death,  in  the  most  terrific  form,  would  be  more  wel- 
come than  the  fate  you  denounce.  Speak,  sir,  explicitly 
and  without  ceremony.'  Be  assured  I  have  foresight 
to  perceive  and  dread  the  worst,  yet  shall  not  want 
courage  to- act  as  duty  and  prudence  may  require." 

i'  Spoken  in  the  Hving  spirit  of  the  defunct  magna- 
nimous Baroness  !  Then,  lady,  invoke  her  spirit  while 
you  peruse  this  epistle." 

The  packet  came  from  the  Earl  of  Murray.  He 
counselled  and  exhorted  Dulsibella  to  accept  the  guard- 
ian protection  of  the  venerable  descendant  of  Ercildoun, 
who  was  pledged  to  conduct  her  in  safety.  The  Earl 
told  her,  a  small  but  potent  fleet  awaited  to  waft  hex  to 
his  domains.  Three  ladies  of  honour  and  several 
female  attendants  were  on. board  of  the  ship  fitted  up  for 
her  reception ;  and  his  Lordship  admonished  her  to  re- 
member, that  fiight  would  not  only  save  herself  from 


IH 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


disastrous  nuptials,  but  likewise  extricate  her  father 
from  the  consequences  of  a  detected  correspondence 
with  the  enemies  of  Scotland.  The  cheeks  of  Dulsi- 
bella  grew  pale  as  her  snowy  neck  and  arms,  and  tears 
trembled  on  her  long  eyelashes. 

In  a  voice  that  vibrated  on  all  her  nerves,  the  sage 
implored  her  speedily  to  decide  whether  she  would  re- 
main the  slave  of  superstition,  or  avert  evil  from  herself 
and  her  father,  by  yielding  to  the  monitions  of  her 
truest  friend,  the  Earl  of  Murray;  Dulsibella,  starting 
as  from  a  dream  of  anguish,  looked  up ;  a  glowing 
crimson  chased  the  lily  hue  from  her  face,  when  she 
saw  the  brilliant  dark  eyes  t)f  the  sage  fixed  on  h^r 
countenance,  as  if  his  very  soul  hung  on  her  decision. 
— "  Lady  !  pardon  my  importunity,  but  not  a  moment 
should  be  lost !" 

"Alas!  to  cast  myself  upon  a  world  unknown  i6 
appalHng;  yet  to  remain  is  obviously  more  perilous. 
Lead,  sir !  I  follow,  in  the  name  of  God  !" 

«  And  God  so  deal  with  me  and  with  the  far-famed 
race  of  Ercildoun,  as  I  prove  my  fidehty  and  upright- 
ness in  this  precious  trust  !'* 

Dulsibella  was  surprised  yet  secretly  charmed  by 
those  expressions,  uttered  in  a  tone  ardent  as  tender. 
She  directed  the  sage  to  a  concealed  outlet,  made 
known  to  her  by  the  late  Baroness ;  and  by  that  sub- 
terranean passage  her  hoary  guide  proceeded  with  her 


THE    FUNERAL    OF    ST.    COLUMBA.  "  155 

to  the  narrow  bridge  of  the  moat,  where  a  splendid 
retinue  of  armed  men  in  the  Earl  of  Murray's  livery 
received  them.  The  sage  raised  her  in  his  arms  and 
seated  her  on  a  velvet  cushion ;  and  he  walked  by  her 
side  till  the  footmen  bore  her  where  a  white  palfry, 
richly  caparisoned,  was  honoured  in  becoming  her  mode 
of  conveyance  to.  the  shore.  With  the  agile  grace  of 
early  manhood,  the  sage  vaulted  upon  a  war-horse ;  a 
sword  gUttered  in  his  hand,  and  his  followers  marched 
on  all  sides  with  their  weapons  unsheathed.  They 
soon  overtook  Alice,  mounted  on  a  pad  behind  the 
messenger  who  first  approached  the  castle.  They 
journeyed  all  the  night,  and  about  daybreak  hailed  the 
maritime  power  of  the  Earl  of  Murray.  On  board  of 
the  largest  ship  the  Lady  Dulsibella  was  introduced  to 
three  noble  matrons,  the  near  relatives  of  her  mother. 
Ten  days  of  light  winds  and  sunny  weather  brought 
the  vessel  to  anchor  in  the  sight  of  Lord  Murray's 
castle.  During  the  voyage  no  gentleman  was  privi- 
leged to  enter  the  cabin  occupied  by  the  ladies,  except 
the  sage.  Dulsibella  found  in  him  an  active  and  sym- 
pathising assistant,  while  attending  those  suffering  from 
sea-sickness.  Even  the  waiting-damsels  were  in  want 
of  kind  offices,  in  place  of  being  helpful  to  the  noble 
ladies  ;  and  our  heroine,  with  her  venerable  companion, 
insensibly  slided  into  close  intimacy,  as  they  ministered 
to  their  shipmates.  The  state  of  feverish  excitement 
13* 


156  friendship's   offering. 

which  prevailed  in  Dulsibella's  feelings,  repelled  every 
uneasy  physical  sensation ;  and  while,  by  soothing  con- 
verse, he  drew  the  sting  from  her  afflictive  impressions, 
it  seemed  to  her  as  if  his  presence  supplied  to  her 
every  tie,  every  happiness.  She  imparted  to  him,  with 
perfect  confidence,  every  thought  of  her  artless  bosom  ; 
she  related  to  him  all  the  passages  of  her  life  that  dwelt 
on  her  memory,  and  with  unaflfected  goodness  lamented 
that,  in  a  sudden  departure,  she  made  no  provision  for 
her  poor  pensioners.  Her  father !— -dear  though  mis- 
taken parent ! — he  would  take  care  of  her  dependants, 
and  regard  with  peculiar  interest  every  object  of  her 
favour.  Floods  of  t^rs  accompanied  any  allusion  to 
her  father.  The  sage  evidently  shared  her  griefs, 
and  consoled  her  by  pleading  that  in  leaving  the  Baron 
she  rescued  him  from  attainder  and  disgrace ;  and 
through  her  influence  he  might  be  safe  and  happy. 
He  gently  stole  her  attention  from  past  or  anticipated 
sorrows,  by  engaging  her  to  talk  on  subjects  fraught 
with  the  rich  and  select  inteUigence  of  his  own  mind, 
improved  by  study  and  by  travel  in  foreign  lands. 

Late  in  the  evening  her  Sage  guardian  resigned  Dul- 
sibeUa  to  the  protection  of  the  Earl  of  Murray.  His 
Lordship  received  the  fair  voyager  with  paternal  cor- 
diality; and  after  a  sumptuous  repast,  she  and  her 
noble  kinswomen  retired  to  rest.  Next  morning  the 
Earl  introduced  Dulsibella  to  the  young  Lord  Gleno- 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  ST.  COLUMBA.         157 

nan,  the  favourite  hero  of  Holland,  and  a  correspondent 
of  her  grandmother,  the  late  Baroness.  Dulsibella  had 
often  mentioned  him  to  the  sage ;  and  though  he  ac- 
knowledged having  a  great  affection  for  the  soldier  of 
the  Netherlands,  he  said  so  little  in  his  praise,  that  the 
lady  was  quite  unprepared  to  meet  an  object  so  conspi- 
cuous in  every  fascination  of  person  and  manners. 
The  inflections  of  his  heart-appeahng  voice  reminded 
her  of  the  sage  ;  his  eyes  had  the  same  animated  ten- 
derness when  he  addressed  her  ;  but  all  the  attractions 
of  youth  sat  on  his  brow,  fair  and  polished  as  her  own, 
and  hke  her  own  half  shaded  by  chestnut  ringlets. 

Many  days  passed.  The  sage  did  not  reappear. 
Dulsibella  had  risen  early,  and  pacing  the  great  hall, 
tried  to  divert  her  pensive  meditations  from  the  sage 
and  his  rival.  Lord  Glenonan,  by  admiring  the  cum- 
brous magnificence  of  the  furniture,  when  the  young 
hero  joined  her.  This  interview  produced  the  usual 
effect  upon  two  ingenuous  overflowing  hearts,  and  Dul- 
sibella had  tacitly  assented  to  her  lover's  intense  solici- 
tation for  leave  to  make  a  formal  application  to  her 
father,  and  to  Lord  Murray,  when  his  Lordship  accosted 
them  with  significant  hints  of  the  predicament  in  which 
they  respectively  stood.  In  that  era  of  broad  facetious- 
ness,  courtly  language  or  demeanour  had  not  reached 
the  perfection  of  modern  refinement  by  many  degrees. 
Dulsibella's  complexion  had  often  been  indebted  to  the 


168  friendship's    offering. 

Earl  of  Murray's  unsparing  jests  for  a  brighter  roseate; 
and  now  her  blushes  outglowed  the  scarlet  vestments 
of  her  admirer,  when  Lord  Murray  said,  "I  hope, 
Lady  Dulsibelk,  you  have  prevailed  with  Lord  Qleno- 
nan  to  recal  the  sage,  or  perhaps  his  Lordship  may  do 
as  a  substitute." 

Lady  Dulsibella's  spirit  was  roused  by  this  gross 
allusion  to  sentiments  she  had  not  dared  to  scan  in  her 
utmost  privacy.  She  hastily  said,  ^'I  have  never  be- 
held lord  or  gentleman  worthy  to  become  a  substitute 
for  the  descendant  of  Ercildoun — none  who  could  equal 
him  as  an  instructive  and  engaging  companion." 

<'It  is,  I  see.  Lord  Glenonan's  turn  to  blush,"  ex- 
claimed the  Earl  of  Murray,  with  an  unmerciful  laugh. 
<<Is  not  he  a  very  reverend  preceptor  for  a  fair  novice? 
You  look  incredulous.  Lady  Dulsibella ;  but,  on  my 
sacred  honour,  I  affirm  that  your  peerless  sage  and 
Lord  Glenonan  are  identically  the  same ;  and  for  this 
reason  the  ladies  and  I  eluded  your  inquiries  about  the 
venerable  companion  of  your  voyage." 

Lady  Dulsibella,  with  the  consent  of  her  father,  was 
in  a  few  weeks  the  bride  of  Lord  Glenonan.  The  ro- 
mantic delights  of  their  first  acquaintance  gilded  the 
subsequent  conjugal  union  through  a  long  and  prosper- 
ous life.  The  portrait  of  his  Dulsibella,  which  the  old 
Baroness  had  sent  to  Lord  Glenonan's  mother,  was  still 
his   bosom   treasure,  though  the  lovely  original  held 


THE    FUNERAL    OF    ST.    COLUMBA.  159 

there  a  pre-eminent  station.  This  miniature  had  se- 
conded the  Earl  of  Murray's  request  to  the  young  hero 
for  an  attempt  to  rescue  Dulsihella,  while  her  father 
left  the  castle  in  which  he  had  long  immured  her. 
The  Baroness  appointed  lona  as  her  place  of  interment, 
as  the  only  inducement  that  could  lead  to  her  son's 
absence,  and  procure  a  release  to  her  grand-daughter. 
The  Earl  of  Murray's  protection,  granted  to  her  dying 
entreaties,  completed  the  enterprise,  and  saved  the 
Baron  from  being  called  to  a  severe  account  for  prac- 
tices against  the  state.  He  made  over  his  lands  to 
Lord  Glenonan,  in  tru^t  for  the  heirs  of  Dulsibella,  and 
retired  to  a  monastery  in  France. 

B.  G. 


THE   DYING   BRIGAND. 


She  stood  before  the  dying  man, 

And  her  eye  grew  wildly  bright ; — 
*^  Ye  will  not  pailse  for  a  woman's  ban 

Nor  shrink  from  a  woman's  might ; 
And  his  glance  is  dim  that  had  seen  you  fly, 

As  ye  before  have  fled: — 
Look,  dastards !  how  the  brave  can  die — 

Beware, — he  is  not  dead  !— 

"  By  his  blood  ye  have  tracked  him  to  his  lair; 

Would  you  bid  the  spirit  part  ? — 
He  that  durst  harm  one  single  hair,  ' 

Must  reach  it  through  my  heart. 
I  cannot  weep,  for  my  brain  is  dry, — 

Nor  plead,  for  I  know  not  how ; — 
But  my  aim  is  sure,  and  the  shaft  may  fly, — 

And  the  bubbhng  Hfe-blood  flow ! 


THE    DYING    BRIGAND.  161 

"Yet  leave  me,  while  dim  life  remains, 

To  list  his  parting  sigh ; 
To  kiss  away  these  gory  stains. 

To  close  this  beamless  eye  !^ 
Ye  will  not! — ^no, — he  triumphs  still, ,     «  , 

Whose  foes  his  death-pangs  dread.— 
His  was  the  power — yours  but  the  will  :— 

Back,— ^back, — he  is  not  dead  ! 

<<  His  was  the  power  that  held  in  thrall. 

Through  many  a  glorious  year. 
Priests,  burghers,  nobles,  princes,  all 

Slaves  worship,  hate,  or  fear : 
Wrongs,  insults,  injuries,  thrust  him  forth, 

A  bandit-chief  to  dwell ; — 
How  he  avenged  his  slighted  worth. 

Ye,  cravens,  best  may  tell ! — 

"  His  spirit  lives  in  the  mountain  breath, 

It  flows  in  the  mountain  wave  ; — 
Rock, — stream, — hath  done  the  work  of  death, 

Yon  deep  ravine  the  grave  ! — 
That  which  hath  been,  again  may  be  ! —  . 

Aye,  by  yon  fleeting  sun. 
Who  stirs,  no  morning  ray  shall  see, — 

His  sand  of  life  has  run !" 


162  friendship's   offering. 

Defiance  shone  in  her  flashing  eye, 

But  her  heart  beat  wild  with-  fear : — 
She  starts, — the  bandit's  last  faint  sigh 

Breathes  on  her  sharpened  ear.— 
She  gazes  on  each  stiifening  limb, 

And  the  death-damp  chills  her  brow  ;- 
"  For  him  I  lived,— I  die  with  him  I 

Slaves,  do  your  office,  now  !" 


BAZAARS   OF   THE  EAST. 

BY  J.  A.  ST.  JOHN. 

The  bazaars  of  London  and  Paris,  though  the  idea 
of  them  was  originally  borrowed  from  the  Orientals, 
afford  but  Httle  aid  in  forming  a  just  conception  of  the 
scenes  of  traffic  which  are  known  by  the  same  name  in 
the  East.  No  doubt  the  high  perfection  to  which  arts 
and  manufactures  have  been  carried  in  Europe — the 
elevation,  capaciousness,  and  elegance  of  the  buildings 
appropriated  among  us  to  the  display  of  the  hghter  and 
more  graceful  productions  of  our  industry — the  taste 
with  which  the  various  articles  are  arranged — the  neat 
costume  of  the  sellers — the  beauty  and  superb  appear- 
ance of  the  fair  visiters,  sauntering  with  airy  negHgence 
through  the  crowded  galleries, — contribute  to  render  an 
Enghsh  bazaar  a  highly  interesting  spectacle.  And 
were  trading  speculations  more  generally  attended  With 
success,  the  moral  aspect  of  the  place  would  be  no  less 
agreeable  than  its  exterior  is  showy.  But  in  the  faces 
of  those  who  sit  there  to  sell  their  wares,  it  is  impossi- 
14 


164  friendship's    offering.. 

ble  not  to  perceive  a  restless  anxiety,  the  manifestation 
of  a  constant  inward  reference  to  the  exorbitant  price 
they  pay  daily  for  their  counters,  and  of  keen  anticipa- 
tion or  apprehension  of  loss.  Their  eye  busily  peruses 
each  passer  by;  their  pohteness  is  painful  and  unna- 
tural ;  you  see  they  are  all  unhappy.  Nevertheless,  to 
an  Oriental,  who  should  visit  our  bazaars  for  the  first 
time,  they  must  undoubtedly  present  the  appearance  of 
so  many  fairy  scenes. 

A  bazaar  in  the  East,  more  particularly  in  Cairo,  is 
distinguished  by  features  altogether  different.  It  is  not 
a  separate  building.,  but  a  Small  quarter  of  the  city,  con- 
sisting of  several  narrow  streets,  disposed  upon  a  square 
area,  and  intersecting  each  other  at  right  angles.  In 
general,  the  houses  are  uniform  in  height  and  appear- 
ance. The  streets  are  covered  above  with  mats  or 
canvass,  supported  by  hght  poles  or  rafters  of  palm 
wood,  small  openings  being  left  at  intervals  for  the  ad- 
mission of  light ;  and  thus,  as  the  buildings  are  lofty,  a 
refreshing  coolness  in  the  air  is  always  kept  up.  The 
shops,  entirely  open  in  front,  are  raised  about  three  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  pavement,  and  have  a  broad 
stone  -bench,  covered  with  carpets,  running  the  whole 
length  of  the  bazaar.  To  prevent  the  entrance  of  asses, 
horses,  or  camels,  a  massive  iron  chain,  extending 
across  the  street,  and  resting  in  the  middle  on  a  stone 
pillar,  is  fbund  at  every  adit  of  the  bazaar,  and  hangs 


BAZAARS    OF    THE    EAST.  165 

SO  low  that  all  who  go  in  or  out  are  compelled  to  stoop, 
and  at  the  same  time  lift  the  chain,  which  is  thus 
rendered  almost  as  bright  as  steel.  Immense  gates, 
shut  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  night,  defend  the  entrance 
to  the  great  area  of  the  bazaar,  which  resembles  an 
extensive  fortress  isolated  in  the  midst  of  a  populous 
city.  Here  sentinels  are  nightly  stationed ;  but,  instead 
of  pacing  to  and  fro,  as  on  a  mihtary  post,  they  gene- 
rally wrap  themselves  snugly  in  their  blankets,  and 
sleep  on  the  ground. 

In  the  innumerable  shops  which  Hne  either  side  of 
the  various  streets  of  the  bazaar,  all  the  different  pro- 
ductions of  Europe  and  Asia  ^are  exposed,  mingled  and 
confounded  with  each  other,  for  sale.  Here  Hkewise 
we  find  many  rare  and  curious  articles,  in  their 
wrought  or  unwrought  state,  from  the  interior  of 
Africa :  -  ivory,  gold  dust,  ostrich  feathers,  beads  of 
scented  wood,  or  of  semi-transparent  substances  of  un- 
known nature,  extraordinary  seeds  or  berries,  used  as 
ornaments  by  the  capricious  inmates  of  the  harem,  A 
thriving  trade  appears  to  be  carried  on  by  the  money- 
changers. Every  gold  and  silver  coin  of  the  known 
world  may  be  here  converted,  with  little  or  no  loss,  into 
the  current  money  of  the  country;  for  the  constant 
passing  of  strangers  from  every  land  through  Cairo,  led 
thither  by  curiosity,  commerce,  or  rehgion,  familiarises 
the  bankers  with  foreign  money,  with  the  exact  value 


166 


J-RIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


of  which  they  are  almost  universally  acquainted.  For 
several  years  past,  however,  the  Enghsh  sovereign  and 
the  Spanish  dollar  are  the  gold  and  silver  pieces  most 
in  request.  During  the  Syrian  war,  the  Turkish  pias- 
tre was  prohibited ;  and,  from  the  great  proportion  of 
alloy  it  contained,  was  of  almost  no  intrinsic  value. 

Next  in  importance,  perhaps,  to  the  bankers  are  the 
goldsmiths  and  jewellers,  many  of  whom  are  persons  of 
considerable  skill,  and,  from  their- assiduous  apphcation 
to  business  and  their  parsimonious  habits,  have  amassed 
great  wealth.  In  the  knowledge  of  precious  stones 
they  are  probably  equalled  by  few  Europeans;  and  in 
cutting,  polishing,  and  setting  them,  though  possessing 
but  clunisy  tools,  they  exhibit  extraordinary  skill. 
They  appear,  however,  to  be  unacquainted  with  the 
secret  of  blanching  pearls :  for  Mohammed  Ali,  who 
seems  to  be  lavish  in  supplying  the  artificial  wants  of 
his  harem,  has  recourse,  in  this  part  of  the  business,  to 
Europeans.  Some  time  before  my  arrival  in  the  coun- 
try, his  Highness  had  purchased,  of  an  Italian  mer- 
chant, for  two  thousand  pounds,  a  magnificent  pearl 
necklace,  for  one  of  his  women.  The  merchant  made 
frequent  appHcations  for  the  money,  but  was  put  off 
with  promises,  and>  at  last,  began  to  suspect  his  High- 
ness meant  that  the  present  should  be  made  at  his 
expense.  While  I  was  at  Alexandria,  the  lady,  who 
had  probably  grown  tired  of  the  toy,  and  longed  for 


BAZAARS    OF    THE    EAST.  167 

something  new,  took  it  into  her  head  that  the  pearls 
were  not  sufficiently  white  ;  and  the  necklace,  was,  in 
consequence,  returned  to  the  merchant  for  the  purpose 
of  being  sent  to  Italy  to  be  blanched.  I  saw  it  in  his 
hands.  The  pearls  were  of  exceeding  beauty,  and  of 
the  largest  size.  He  smiled  with  delight,  Hke  a  man 
who  had  recovered  a  lost  treasure  : — ''  I  will  send  them 
to  Europe,"  said  he,  "and  they  shall  be  made  whiter; 
but,  per  Dio !  she  shall  never  see  her  necklace  again, 
until  I  get  my  money  for  it." 

One  of  the  articles  in  which  the  goldsmiths  of  the 
East  display  their  taste,  is  the  zerf,  or  stand,  of  silver 
or  gold,  in  which  the  coffee-cups,  among  the  great,  are 
presented  to  the  guests.  Resembling  an  egg-stand  in 
form,  the  zerf  is  frequently  ornamented  above  with  the 
most  delicate  filigree  work,  not  inferior  in  elegance  of 
execution  to  the  finest  specimens  of  Malay  workman- 
ship. The  nose  jewels,  the  earrings,  the  necklaces, 
anklets,  bracelets,  the  ornaments  for  the  forehead  and 
bosom,  the  jewelled  girdles,  the  rings,  signets,  and 
amulet  cases,  which  are  found  in  their  shops,  aU  of 
native  workmanship,  are  often  executed  with  much 
taste. 

Numerous  shops  are  filled  with  blue  glass  beads, 

which  are  chiefly  purchased  by  Arab  pedlers,  who, 

with  these,  and  other  light  wares,  travel  from  village  to 

village,  supplying  the  country  belles  with  finery.    Con- 

14* 


168  friendship's   offering. 

siderable  quantities,  also,  appear  to  be  purchased  for 
the  markets  in  the  Black  Countries  in  the  interior  of 
Africa,  whither  the  merchants  proceed  with  the  slave 
caravans.  The  stranger,  desirous  of  beholding  the 
bright  eyes  of  Cairo,  should  saunter  in  the  morning 
about  the  jewellers'  shops,  and  all  others  where  articles 
of  female  dress  and  ornaments  are  sold : — 


Thither  in  crowds  they  run, 
Some  to  undo,  and  some  to  be  undone. 


In  spite  of  all  the  restraints  of  custom  and  jealousy, 
those  who  possess  remarkable  beauty  will  contrive 
some  means  of  displaying  it.  The  ladies  of  various 
harems,  as  many  sometimes  as  ten  in  a  flock,  may  often 
be  seen  in  the  bazaar,  each  company  under  the  super- 
intendence of  an  eunuch.  While  the  Argus  is  occu- 
pied in  watching  the  foremost,  or  in  clearing  a  way  for 
them  through  the  crowd,  some  of  the  others,  if  they 
happen  to  observe  a  stranger,  will  turn  the  mouth  veil 
aside,  and  exhibit  their  beautiful  Hps  and  chin,  the  only 
portions  of  the  face  which  it  is  thought  necessary  to 
hide,  these ,  being  the  features  that  distinguish  one  in- 
dividual from  another.  For,  in  the  East,  where  every 
woman's  eyes  are  black,  there  is  in.  the  eye  much  less 
characteristic  expression  than  is  generally  supposed. 
When  a  lady  walks  forth,  attended  only  by  a  female 


BAZAARS    OF    THE    EAST.  169 

slave,  she  still  more  boldly  oversteps  the  laws  of  cus- 
tom. She  will  then  even  chat  and  laugh  with  a 
stranger,  give  or  take  a  joke,  honouring  him  from  time 
to  time  with  a  revelation  of  her  charms ;  and,  if  occasion 
permit,  renew  the  acquaintance  thus  formed,  as  if,  in 
spite  of  her  national  prejudices,  she  experienced  a  dis- 
position to  contract  friendships  beyond  the  pale  of  the 
harem.     Instances  of  this  I  have  myself  known. 

From  an  attentive  observation  of  what  takes  place  in. 
the  bazaar,  it  is,  in  fact,  easy  to  discover  that  the  in- 
trigues described  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  elsewhere, 
as  conducted,  in  oriental  cities,  by  the  ministry  of  shop- 
keepers and  slaves,  are  not  only  probable,  but  in  per- 
fect keeping  with  the  manners  of  the  people.  Every 
woman  being  in  perpetual  masquerade,  disguised  so 
that  her  own  husband  could  not  recognize  her  in  the 
street,  such  as  are  disposed  to  take  advantage  of  their 
position  find  abundant  opportunities. 

To  turn,  however,  to  the  other  attractions  of  the  ba- 
zaar,— there  is  no  place  where  one  can  more  agreeably 
sip  his  coffee  or  smoke  a  pipe.  Reclined  in  a  cool, 
shady  recess,  alone  or  with  a  pleasant  companion,  one 
may  here  enjoy  a  spectacle  ever  changing.  Men  of  all 
nations,  of  all  complexions,  in  every  variety  of  costume, 
are  moving  to  and  fro,  not  with  that  hurried  gait  and 
uneasy  manner  observable  in  all  European  cities,  in 
the  resorts  of  business,  but  with  a  calm,  composed  air, 


170  friendship's   offering. 

arising  apparently  from  intense  self-satisfaction.  It  is 
not  buyers  and  sellers  only  who  frequent  the  bazaar. 
Lomigers  make  it  their  favorite  resort,  and  amuse 
themselves  by  taking  the  air  in  its  cool  covered  streets, 
as  they  would,  among  us,  in  Kensington  Gardens,  or 
the  Parks  : — for  the  Orientals  are  by  no  means  so 
averse,  as  has  been  pretended,  to  locomotion,  and  re- 
quire only  shade  and  a  refreshing  breeze  to  tempt  them 
into  walking. 

Not  the  least  extraordinary  among  the  individuals 
here  beheld,  are  the  Derwishes  from  different  parts  of 
the  Mohammedan  world.  These  men,  who,  in  adopt- 
ing the  Derwish's  mantle,  profess  to  forsake  the  world, 
appear,  notwithstanding,  to  dehght  in  being  constantly 
before  the  eyes  of  mankind ;  as  if  desirous  that  the 
sacrifices  they  make  and  the  mortifications  they  endure 
should,  not  escape  notice.  With  many,  vanity  is  no 
doubt  the  principal,  if  not  the  sole,  motive  for  adopting 
a  hfe  of  seeming  penance  and  real  pleasure ;  and,  even 
in  those  whom  disappointment,  disgust,  or  religious 
enthusiasm  leads  to  abandon  all  secular  pursuitSj  a 
spice  of  vanity  secretly  mingles  with  their  more  sombre 
feelings,  and  urges  them,  even  while  they  seem  most 
insensible  to  all  earthly  satisfaction,  to  court,  in  the  ba- 
zaars, and  other  public  places,  the  observation  and 
sympathy  of  the  crowd.  Hence  we  find  them  con- 
stantly flocking  to  the  spots  where  numerous  assembhes, 


BAZAARS    OF    THE    EAST.  171 

for  whatever  purpose,  congregate  together.  Admira- 
tion, and  the  wonder  of  the  crowd,  are  necessary  to 
their  happiness.  With  these  they  console  themselves 
for  what  they  have  lost ;  for  the  proud  and  aspiring 
consider  any  species  of  marked  distinction  a  sufficient 
compensation  for  the  sacrifice  of  what  are  vulgarly  re- 
garded as  pleasures. 

Busthng  through  the  throng  is  seen,  in  various  parts 
of  the  bazaar,  an  auctioneer,  who,  holding  up  a  double- 
barrelled  gun,  a  sabre,  a  watch,  or  an  illuminated 
manuscript  of  the  Koran,  offers  the  article  to  the 
highest  bidder.  Some  one  begins,  perhaps  with  a 
piastre,  a  second  says  "two,"  a  third  "five,"  and  so 
on  ;  while  the  peripatetic  auctioneer  descants  in  glow- 
ing eloquence  on  the  rare  merits  of  the  property  for 
sale.  If  it  be  a  sabre,  why  it  has  belonged  to  Roostum 
or  Antar,  and  has  shed  blood  by  the  hogshead.  It  has 
been  manufactured  of  the  finest  Damascus  steel — it 
was  cooled  in  the  Abana — its  edge  could  not  be  turned 
by  granite — it  would  cut  through  the  moon.  Perhaps 
he  is  offering  a  shawl.  Imagine  the  agreeable  ideas, 
the  graceful  allusions,  the  rich  and  spirit-stirring  asso- 
ciations, connected  with  a  shawl !  Who  knows  whither 
it  may  find  its  way?  His  imagination  penetrates 
through  doors,  and  walls,  and  troops  of  guards,  into 
the  harem,  and  pictures  it  thrown  neghgently  round 
the  waist  of  some  young   sultana.     Or,  supposing  it 


179  friendship's   offering. 

has  been  already  wom,^for  second-hand  goods  are 
by  no  means  viewed  with  contempt  in  the  East, — what 
a  field  is  then  opened  to  his  ingenuity ! — he  will  swear 
it  has  been  at  Mekka,  that  its  fringe  has  licked  up  the 
dust  of"  the  Kaaba,  that  it  has  been  sprinkled  with  the 
waters  of  Zemzem,  that  it  has  touched,  at  Medina,  the 
golden  raihngs  of  the  prophet's  tomb.  Or,  Mashallah  ! 
—it  may  have  been  worn  and  darned  by  some  pretty 
favourite  of  the  Shah  of  Persia,  some  captive  princess, 
sighing,  in  a  gilded  prison,  for  the  liberty  and  innocent 
happiness  of  her  childhood.  <'  Buy  this  article,"  says 
he;  "it  is  as  good  as  a  talisman,  as  you  yourselves 
will  admit  when  you  have  heard  its  history.  Do  you 
see  these  spots  ?  Nay,  don't'  be  afraid :  come  nearer, 
and  look  at  them.  Aye,  they  are  blood-stains.  How 
they  come  to  be  there  I  shall  explain.  Many  years 
ago  the  Shah  of  Persia,  while  engaged  in  hunting,  was 
separated  from  his  companions,  and,  after  wandering 
several  hours  among  the  woods,  towards  evening 
emerged  into  a  spacious  plain,  where  there  was  an 
Eylat  encampment.  His  Majesty,  though  he  loved 
not  those  wandering  tribes,  and  had  veiy  Httle  faith  in 
their  loyalty, — for,  in  fact,  he  had  murdered  some  of 
their  chiefs, — was  nevertheless  constrained  by  hunger, 
and  his  utter  ignorance  of  the  country,  to  trust  himself 
among  their  tents.  Accordingly,  riding  up  with  affected 
composure,  and  addressing  himself  to  the  first  man  he 


BAZAARS    OF    THE    EAST.  173 

saw,  he  requested  to  be  conducted  to  the  chief's  tent. 
On  arriving  before  the  door,  a  young  woman,  beautiful 
as  Zuleikha,  but  unveiled  as  is  their  custom,  came 
forth,  and,  observing  that  her  father  was  old  and  infirm, 
entreated  him  to  alight  and  enter.  Her  lovehness 
pierced  his  heart  Hke  an  arrow.  For  some  time  he  sat 
still  in  the  saddle,  gazing  at  her  eyes,  without  answer- 
ing a  word.  Presently,  perceiving  his  amazement, 
she  repeated  her  invitation ;  and  the  Shah,  starting  as 
from  a  dream,  dismounted,  and  apologising  for  his  ab- 
sence of  manner,  followed  her  into  the  tent.  Here  he 
was  received  with  true  Eylat  hospitahty ;  and,  when 
he  had  eaten,  taking  the  old  chief  aside, 

^'  ^  Mashallah,'  said  he,  ^your  daughter  is  beautiful. 
I  am  the  Shah  ;  will  you  give  her  to  be  the  sun  of  my 
harem  V 

"  <  It  is  impossible  !'  replied  the  old  man  ;  <  she  is 
already  married  ;  and  her  husband,  a  young  man  of 
our  tribe,  who  will  be  here  presently,  loves  her  more 
than  his  eyes.' 

"  1  will  make  him  governor  of  a  province,'  rejoined 
the  Shah,  <  if  he  will  yield  her  up  to  me.  My  heart  is 
scorched  to  a  cinder.' 

"  ^  It  cannot  be,'  replied  her  father.  *  She  is  the  star 
of  my  tribe,  her  husband  is  my  bravest  warrior.  I  am 
old,  and  who  knows  ?     In  a  short  time  my  horse  and 


174  friendship's    offering. 

my  spear  may  descend  to  him.  I  am  on  the  edge  of 
the  grave.' 

*''01d  man!'  exclaimed  the  monarch,  <all  the  gold 
of  Persia  is  mine.  Let  him  yield  her  up,  and  he  shall 
have  her  weight  in  tomans !' 

" '  What !  sell  my  daughter  ?  By  my  heard,  if  you 
were  not  the  Shah  ! . . .  But  say  no  more  of  it.  The 
blood  of  the  Eylat  is  hot.' 

"His  Majesty  now  perceived  that  he  was  not  in 
Ispahan,  where  every  man's  head  was  at  his  disposal. 
Biting  his  hps,  therefore,  he  remained  silent  for  som6 
minutes  ;  then,  feigiiing  to  be  content, — 

"<  Mashallah  !  there  is  no  evil,'  said  he  ;  <  you  have 
other  daughters,  perhaps  ;  and,  if  not,  why  we  must 
rest  satisfied.' 

"  Nothing  further  took  place  that  night ;  hut,  on  the' 
morrow,  the  Shah's  hunting  companions  and  guards, 
after  traversing  the  country  in  all  directions,  having 
discovered  that  their  master  was  in  the  Eylat's  tent, 
came  galloping  up,  and,  being  in  considerable  numbers, 
exhibited  that  sort  of  insolence  by  which  power  is 
often  distinguished.  Now  it  was  his  Majesty's  turn 
to  talk  authoritatively.  Sending  for  the  old  man,  who, 
apprehending  evil,  had  retired  into  his  harem,  he  said, 
at  T^Q  are  not  accustomed  to  entreat  our  subjects 
when  we  would  do  them  the  honour  to  take  their 
daughters  into  our  harem.  Still,  in  the  present  case,  we 


BAZAARS    OF    THE    EAST.  175 

condescend  to  ask  your  permission,  though  determined, 
should  you  refuse  to  grant  it,  to  make  use  of  the  power 
and  authority  entrusted  to  us.  See,  my  troops  surround 
your  camp.  Your  daughter  I  must  have.  Her  hus- 
band, if  he  submit  with  a  good  grace,  shall  receive  a 
high  command,  with  presents  of  inestimable  value ;  if 
not,  his  head  is  ours,  and  we  shall  order  it  to  be  laid 
at  our  feet.     Let  the  woman  be  brought  forth.' 

"The  husband  stood  near.  His  heart  was  rent  by 
the  fiercest  passions — his  eyes  rolled— ^his  Hps  quivered. 
At  length,  turning  to  the  Shah, 

"  <  Your  Majesty,'  said  he,  ^  must  allow  that  it  is 
hard  to  part  with  those  we  love.  Nevertheless,  as  it 
seems  to  be  the  will  of  God,  I  shall  submit  to  it;  and 
only  demand  your  gracious  leave  to  salute  and  bid  her 
adieu  in  your  presence.' 

"  This  being  readily  granted,  the  lady  was  brought 
forth,  and  the  husband  stepping  up  to  her,  and  kissing 
her  lips,  whispered  in  their  own  language,  *  The  day 
is  come  for  us  to  part.  If  you  have  loved  as  I  have, 
say  the  word^I  will  free  you  yet — ^but,  if  words  only 
have  passed  between  us,  you  may  go  with  the  Shah.' 

"  <How  can  you  doubt  me  ?'  she  answered.  *I  have 
loved  you  as  my  soul.  I  see  the  handle  of  your  poniard. 
Use  it  and  let  us  meet  in  heaven.' 

"In  another  moment  he  had  plunged  the  dagger  in 
her  breast,  and  the  blood  spouting  forth  in  streams, 
15 


176 


FRIENDSHIP  8     OFFERING. 


some  drops  fell  upon  this  shawl,  which  the  Shah  then 
wore  about  his  waist.  ^  The  Eylat  was  cut  down  and 
joined  his  beloved  in  paradise ;  but  the  men  of  his 
tribe,  rushing  with  fury  to  the  combat,  the  Persians 
were  repulsed  with  great  slaughter ;  and  in  the  combat 
his  Majesty  received  a  wound,  Avhich,  though  not 
instantly  mortal,  in  the  end  was  the  cause  of  his  death. 
His  shawl,  stained  with  the  blood  of  the  Eylat  princess, 
he  sent  as  an  offering  to  the  shrine  of  Hassein ;  but  on 
the  way  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Bedouins,  who 
sold  it  here  in  Cairo.  Such  is  the  history  of  this 
article.  Judge  whether  it  be  not  equal  in  virtue  to  a 
talisman." 

After  such  recommendation,  who  could  resist  buying? 
I  became  the  purchaser,  and  the  blood  of  the  Eylat 
princess  is  no^  religiously  preserved  in  London,  as  a 
relic  rendered  sacred  by  love. 


V^MOKItS    Visual    WADIL, 


TAKING   THE   VAIL. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


How  gently  towards  the  skies,  young  bride  of  heaven ; 

Turn  thy  moist  eyes,  swimming  with  holy  Hght ! 

I  can  detect  no  sorrowing  thought,  the  while, 

Casting  its  shadow  on  thy  paUid  cheek — 

PalHd  with  love — not  care — with  love  divine. 

As  o'er  thee  hangs  the  pure  and  colourless  vail, 

Precursor  of  that  pall  of  breathing  death  , 

So  soon  to  fall  between  thee  and  the  world — 

Thy  very  name  gone  from  the  starry  roll 

Of  earth's  sweet  sisterhood — is  there  no  passing  doubt 

In  shunning  thus  the  sorrows  of  man's  lot 

By  murder  of  its  joys  ? 

Look  on  those  flowers, 
Cast  on  the  altar  in  their  vernal  bloom  ! 
True,  they  must  fade. — Frail  as  thy  beauty  they — 
And  thrown  by,  as  its  memory.     Have  they  not 
Still  perfume  to  thy  sense  ?    Who  made  those  flowers  ? 
Were  they  created  that  their  breath  should  waste 
Its  music  of  sweet  odours  all  unprized 


180 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


By  those  who,  solely  of  God's  children,  hear 

The  deep  tones  of  their  wonderful  songs  ?     Beware  ! 

Pause,  e'er  fate's  gaping  shears  shall  sharply  close 

On  thy  bright  locks,  spreading  a  natural  veil — 

From  heaven  direct,  not  from  the  fallible  hand 

Of  earthly  agents — round  thy  opening  charms  ! 

Is  it  a  crime  that,  in  the  flush  of  youth, 

When  first  thy  swelling  form  assumed  the  grace, 

And  thy  firm  step  the  buoyant  dignity 

Of  the  world's  mistress — woman, — floating  forth 

O'er  the  scarce  bended  grass — strong,  yet  how  light-— 

As  if  awaiting  but  the  tardy  growth 

Of  budding  pinions,  to  arise  at  once 

An  angel,  poised  upon  the  impalpable  air 

Which  even  now,  envious,  scarce  yields  thy  pressure 

To  the  half-conscious  earth, — is  it  a  crime 

That  thoughts  of  innocent  pride  came  bubbling  up 

From  the  bright  springs  of  feehng,  as  thy  channs, 

Mirrored  in  other  eyes,  glanced  back  all  warm 

On  thy  young  heart  ?     Rose  not  thy  spotless  soul 

Up  to  the  giver,  from  his  glorious  gifts, 

Offering  that  very  pride  before  his  throne  ? 

Is  it  not  grosser  pride,  in  humble  guise, 
Which,  under  holy  semblance,  casts  away 
Blessings,  however  brief,  still  born  on  high  ? 
Is  there  true  merit  in  the  coward  step 


TAKING     THE     VAIL.  181 

That  spurns  all  active  sin,  by  sacrifice 

Of  all  life's  active  duties  ?     Pause  and  think  ! 

I  last  thou  no  brother,  vrhom  thy  gentle  sway 
May  save  from  many  a  draft  upon  the  bank 
Of  Conscience,  the  stern  broker,  who  still  claims 
His  interest  in  the  coin  of  fell  Remorse 
Or  the  Bowl-bearer,  dagger-armed  Despair  ? — 
No  sister,  left  to  grieve  her  lonely  lot. 
Breasting  youth's  heart-storm,  with  no  friendly  ear 
In  which  to  breathe  the  secret  of  her  soul  ? — 
No  father,  who  may  need  thy  hand  to  smooth 
Care's  wrinkle  on  his  brow,  and  close  his  eyes 
When  earthly  care  may  task  his  peace  no  more  ?— - 
No  mother,  who /or  thee  has  borne  the  woes, 
The  dangers  of  a  life  which  thou  wouldst  sliun, 
Thus,  by  a  living  death  ? — Not  one  of  these  ? 

Poor  child!     Yet  pause  and  think!     Has  no  bright 

dream 
Of  woman's  noblest  destiny  disturbed 
The  grave  repose  of  night,  which  thou  wouldst  mock 
In  the  dull  twihght  of  the  cloister's  gloom — 
Has  no  dim  picture  of  a  mundane  joy, 
But  Httle  less  than  heavenly,  roused  thy  mind 
From  its  deep  lethargy  in  balmy  sleep, 
Painting  a  misty  circle  far  away, 
15* 


183  friendship's    offering. 

Luminous  with  something  hke  to  hght, — 
Such  as  in  second-sight  the  seer  beholds, 
Fraught  with  the  moving  images  of  things 
In  the  dark  laboratory  of  future  time  ? 
Hast  thou  not  seen  in  shadowy  outline  there 
Thyself  divided,  while  another  self, 
Sharing  thy  very  soul,  looked  up  to  thee 
As  thou  looked  on  thy  mother  ? 

Yet  unmoved ! 
Why  dost  thou  hug  to  thy  devoted  breast 
That  holy  sign, — ^type  of  a  holier  deed, 
The  eternal  sacrifice  of  infinite  good  ?— 
Needs  the  high  cause  for  which  thou  layest  down 
On  the  same  altar,  beauty — pleasure — wealth — 
All  that  God  gives  of  joy  to  hving  man — 
Such  need  of  thee  ? — I  thought  His  sacrifice 
Had  been  complete ! 

But  take  thy  chosen  path, 
Thou  that  had  been  the  mother  of  young  angels  ! 
Each  has  his  mission — sweet  'twould  be  to  me, 
O'erwearied  with  long  years  of  strugghng  hfe, 
Thus  to  withdraw,  in  meditative  mood. 
And  watch  the  circling  waves  that  vddening  sweep 
Over  hfe's  current,  by  small  pebbles  raised 
Which  it  was  mine  to  cast. — It  may  not  be  ! 


TAKING     THE     VAIL.  183 

Some  still  remain ;  and  I — must  struggle  on, 
Marking  with  curling  lip  the  idle  sport 
Of  little  great  ones  tickled  with  their  toys  ! 
False  friendship — buried  love — the  furtive  glance 
Of  smirking  treachery — poverty's  keen  tooth — 
Pleasure's  deceptive  lure — soul-deadening  wealth — 
And  cold  ingratitude — these  evils  thou  wouldst  fly  : — 
I,  who  have  tried  them  all — live  on  and  smile  ! 

Loving  his  kind, — stern  censor  of  the  wrong, 

But  lenient  to  the  actor, — undismayed 

By  the  world's  frown — untempted  by  its  praise, — 

Careless  of  hate,  revenge,  traduction,  pride, — 

Looking  with  equal  eye  on  Czar  and  serf, — 

Supporter  of  the  weak — adviser  of  the  strong,-— 

Liberal,  and  just,  and  prodigal  of  self. 

Should  he  be  formed  who  calls  himself  a  man. 

Such  is  not  woman's  duty ;  for  the  vine 

Clings  to  the  sturdy  oak  that  braves  the  storm — 

This,  to  my  feeble  vision,  had  been  thine — 

But  I'll  not  judge  thee  !     On  the  same  broad  rock 

Rests  thy  firm  faith  and  mine.     We  yet  may  meet  . 

Where  purposes,  not  actions,  test  our  claim. 

"  Whom  the  Gods  love,  die  young,"  may  thou  not  live 

To  doubt,  too  late,  the  irrevocable  deed. 

Go  to  thy  cloister  child ! 


^-^k 


THE   OWL. 


BY    THOMAS    HOOD,    ESQ. 


An  indiscreet  friend,  says  the  proverb,  is  more 
dangerous  t"han  the  naked  sword  of  an  enemy ;  and, 
truly,  there  is  nothing  more  fatal  than  the  act  of  a  mis- 
judging ally,  which,  like  a  mistake  in  medicine,  is  apt 
to  kill  the  unhappy  patient  it  was  intended  to  cure. 

This  lesson  was  taught,  in  a  remarkable  manner,  to 
the  innocent  Zerlina,  a  peasant ;  to  conceive  which, 
you  must  suppose  her  to  have  gone,  by  permission, 
into  the  garden  of  the  Countess  of  Marizzo,  near  the 
Amo,  one  beautiful  morning  of  June.  It  was  a  spacious 
pleasure  ground,  excellently  disposed,  and  adorned 
with  the  chc»cest  specimens  of  shrubs  and  trees,  being 
bounded,  on  all  sides,  by  hedge-rows  of  laurels  and 
myrtles,  and  such  sombre  evergreens,  and  in  the  midst 
was  a  pretty  verdant  lawn,  with  a  sun-dial.  The 
numberless  plants  that  belong  to  that  bountiful  season 
were  then  in  full  flower,  and  the  deHcate  fragrance  of 


THE     OWL.  185 

the  orange  blossoms  perfumed  the  universal  air.  The 
thrushes  were  singing  merrily  in  the  copses,  and  the 
bees,  that  cannot  stir  without  music,  made  a  joyous 
humming  with  their  wings.  All  things  were  vigorous 
and  cheerful,  except  one, — a  poor  owl,  that  had  been 
hurt  by  a  bolt  from  a  cross-bow,  and  so  had  been 
unable,  by  dayhght,  to  regain  its  accustomed  hermitage, 
but  sheltered  itself  under  a  row  of  laurel  trees  and 
hollies,  that  afforded  a  delicious  shadow  in  the  noon- 
tide sun.  There,  shunning  and  shunned  by  all,  as  it 
is  the  lot  of  the  unfortunate,  he  languished  over  his 
wound,  till  a  flight  of  pert  sparrows  espying  him,  he 
was  soon  forced  to  endure  a  thousand  twittings,  as  well 
as  buflets,  from  that  insolent  race.  The  noise  of  these 
chatterers  attracting  the  attention  of  Zerlina,  she  crossed 
over  to  the  spot,  and,  lo !  there  crouched  the  poor 
bewildered  owl,  bUnking  with  his  large  bedazzled  eyes, 
and  nodding  as  if  with  giddiness  from  his  huffetings, 
and  the  blaze  of  unusual  light.  The  tender  girl,  being 
very  gentle  and  compassionate  by  nature,  was  no  way 
repelled  by  its  ugliness,  but,  thinking  only  of  its  suffer- 
ings, took  up  the  feathered  wretch  in  her  arms,  and 
endeavoured  to  revive  it,  by  placing  it  on  her  bosom. 
There,  nursing  it  with  an  abundance  of  pity  and  con- 
cern, she  carried  it  to  the  grass  plat,  and,  being  ignorant 
of  its  habits,  laid  out  the  poor,  drooping  bird,  as  her 
own  Hvely  spirits  prompted  her,  in  the  glowing  sun- 


186 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING, 


shine  ;  for  she  felt  in  her  own  heart,  at  that  moment,  the 
kind  and  cheerful  influence  of  the  genial  sun.  Then, 
withdrawing  a  little  way,  and  leaning  against  the  dial, 
she  awaited  the  grateful  change,  which  she  hoped  to 
behold  in  the  creature's  looks  ;  whereas,  the  tormented 
owl,  being  grievously  dazzled,  and  annoyed  more  than 
ever,  hopped  off  again,  with  many  piteous  efforts,  to 
the  shady  evergreens.  Notwithstanding,  believing  that 
this  shyness  was  only  because  of  its  natural  wildness, 
or  fear,  she  brought  it  back  again  to  the  lawn,  and  then, 
running  into  the  house  for  some  crumbs  to  feed  it 
withal,  the  poor  old  owl,  in  the  meantime,  crawled 
partly  back,  as  before,  to  its  friendly  shelter  of  holly. 

The  simple  girl  found  it,  therefore,  with  much 
wonder,  again  retiring  towards  those  gloomy  bushes. 
Why,i  what  a  wilful  creature  is  this,  she  thought,  that 
is  so  loth  to  be  comforted.  No  sooner  have  I  placed 
it  in  the  warm,  cheerful  sunshine,  which  enlivens  all 
its  fellow  birds  to  chirp  and  sing,  than  it  goes  back  and 
mopes  under  the  most  dismal  corners.  I  have  known 
many  human  persons  to  have  those  peevish  fits,  and  to 
reject  kindness  as  perversely  ; — but  who  would  look  for 
such  unnatural  humours  in  a  simple  bird  ?  Wherewith, 
taking  the  monkish  fowl  from  its  dull  leafy  cloisters, 
she  disposed  him  once  more  on  the  sunny  lawn,  where 
it  made  still  fresh  attempts  to  get  away  from  the 
over-painful  radiance,  but  was  now  become  too  feeble 


THE     OWL.  187 

and  ill  to  remove.  Zerlina,  therefore,  began  to  believe 
that  it  was  reconciled  to  its  situation;  but  she  had 
hardly  cherished  this  fancy,  when  a  dismal  film  came 
suddenly  over  its  large  round  eyes,  and  then,  falHng 
over  upon  its  back,  after  one  or  two  slow  gasps  of  its 
beak,  and  a  few  twitches  of  its  aged  claws,  the  poor 
martyr  of  kindness  expired  before  her  sight.  It  cost 
her  a  few  tears  to  witness  the  tragical  issue  of  her 
endeavours  ;  but  she  was  still  more  grieved,  afterwards, 
when  she  was  told  of  the  cruelty  of  her  unskilful  treat- 
ment ;  and  the  poor  owl,  with  its  melancholy  death, 
were  the  frequent  subject  of  her  meditations.  '. 

In  the  year  after  this  occurrence,  it  happened  that 
the  Countess  of  Marezzo  was  in  want  of  a  young  female 
attendant,  and,  being  much  struck  vdth  the  modesty 
and  lively  temper  of  Zerhna,  she  requested  her  parents 
to  let  her  live  with  her.  The  poor  people,  having  a 
numerous  family  to  provide  for,  agreed  very  cheerfully 
to  the  proposal,  and  Zerlina  was  carried  by  her  bene- 
factress to  Rome.  Her  good  conduct  confirming  the 
prepossessions  of  the  Countess,  the  latter  showed  her 
many  marks  of  her  favour  and  regard,  not  only  furnish- 
ing her  handsomely  with  apparel,  but  taking  her  as  a 
companion,  on  her  visits,  to  the  most  rich  and  noble 
families,  so  that  Zerlina  was  thus  introduced  to  much 
gaiety  and  splendour.  Her  heart,  notwithstanding, 
ached  oftentimes  under  her  silken  dresses ;  for,  in  spite 


18$ 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


of  the  favour  of  the  Countess,  she  met  with  many  sHghts 
from  the  proud  and  weahhy,  on  account  of  her  humble 
origin,  as  well  as  much  envy  and  .maHce  from  persons 
of  her  own  condition.  She  fell,  therefore,  into  a  deep 
melancholy,  and,  being  interrogated  by  the  Countess, 
she  declared  that  she  pined  for  her  former  humble  but 
happy  estate ;  and  begged,  with  all  humihty,  that  she 
might  return  to  her  native  village.  The  Countess  being 
much  surprised,  as  well  as  grieved  at  this  confession, 
inquired  if  she  had  ever  given  her  cause  to  repent  of 
her  protection,  to  which  Zerlina  replied  with  many 
grateful  tears,  but  still  avowing  the  ardour  of  her  wishes. 
*'Let  me  return,"  said  she,  ^'to  my  homely  life, — this 
oppressive  splendour  dazzles  and  bewilders  me.  I  feel, 
by  a  thousand  humiHating  misgivings  and  disgraces, 
that  it  is  foreign  to  my  nature ; — my  defects  of  birth 
and  manners  making  me  shrink  continually  within 
myself,  whilst  those  who  were  bom  for  its  blaze,  per- 
ceive readily  that  I  belong  to  an  obscure  race,  and  taunt 
me  with  jests  and  indignities  for  intruding  on  their 
sphere.  Those  also  who  should  be  my  equals,  are 
quite  as  bitter  against  me,  for  overstepping  their  station, 
so  that  my  life  is  thus  a  round  of  perpetual  mortifica- 
tions and  uneasiness.  Pray,  therefore,  absolve  me  of 
ingratitude,  if  I  long  to  return  to  my  native  and  proper 
shades,  with  their  appointed  habits.  I  am  dying,  like 
the  poor  owl,  for  lack  of  my  natural  obscurity."     The 


THE     OWL.  189 

curiosity  of  the  Countess  being  awakened  by  the  last 
expression,  Zerlina  related  to  her  the  story  of  that 
unfortunate  bird,  and  applied  it,  with  a  very  touching 
commentary,  to  her  own  condition,  so  that  the  Countess 
was  affected  even  to  the  shedding  of  tears.  She  imme- 
diately comprehended  the  moral,  and  carrying  back 
Zerlina  to  her  native  village,  she  bestowed  her  future 
favour  so  judiciously,  that,  instead  of  being  a  misfortune, 
it  secured  the  complete  happiness  of  the  pretty  peasi^nt. 


16 


THE  DYING  MOTHER  TO   HER   INFANT. 

BY    CAROLINE    BOWLES. 

My  baby !  my  poor  little  one !  thou  hast  come  a  winter 

flower, — 
A  pale  and  tender  blossom,  in  a  cold,  unkindly  hour ; 
Thou  comest  with  the  snow-drop — and,  Hke  that  pretty 

thing,. 
The  pow^r  that  called  my  bud  to  life,  will  shield  its 

blossoming. 


The  snow-drop  hath  no  guardian  leaves,  to  fold  her  safe 

and  warm, 
Yet  well  she  bides  the  bitter  blast,  and  weathers  out  the 

storm : 
I  shall  not  ^  long  enfold  thee  thus — not  long, — ^but  well 

I  know' 
The  Everlasting  Arms,  my  babe,  will  never  let  thee  go  ! 


THE    DYING    MOTHER    TO    HER    INFANT.  191 

The  snow-drop — how  it  haunts  me  still ! — hangs  down 
her  fair  young  head  ; 

So  thine  may  droop  in  days  to  come,  when  I  have  long 
been  dead: 

And  yet  the  little  snow-dropJs  safe! — From  her,  in- 
struction seek ! 

Fot  who  would  crush  the  motherless,  the  lowly,  and 
the  meek  ?  •  '  -      ■ 


Yet  motherless  thou'lt  not  be  long — not  long  in  name, 

my  life ! 
Thy  father  soon  will  bring  him  home  another,  fairer 

wife; 
Be  loving,  dutiful  to  her ; — find  favour  in  her  sight ; 
But  never,  oh  my  child !  forget  thine  own  poor  mother 

quite. 


But  who  will  speak  to  thee  of  her  ? — The  gravestone  at 
her  head,  "  > 

Will  only  tell  the  name,  and  age,  and  hneage  of  the 
dead. 

But  not  a  word  of  all  the  love^the  mighty  love  for 
thee. 

That  crowded  years  into  an  hour  of  brief  maternity. 


192  friendship's   offering. 

They'll  put  my  picture  from  its  place,  to  fix  another 

there, — 
That   picture,  that  was  thought  so  like,  and  yet  so 

passing  fair ! 
Some  chamber  in  thy  father's  house  they'll  let  theo. 

call  thine  Own ; 
Oh !  take  it  there,  to   look  upon,  when  thou  art  all 

alone ; 


To.  breathe  thine  early  griefs  unto,  if  such  assail  my 

child ; 
To  turn  to,  from  less  loving  looks,  from  faces  not  so 

mild. 
Alas  !  uncouscious  httle  one  ! — thou'lt  never  know  that 

best. 
That  holiest  home  of  all  the  earth,  a  living  mother's 

breast ! 


I  do  repent  me  now,  too  late,  of  each  impatient  thought 
That  would  not  let  me  tarry  out  God's  leisure  as  I 

ough,t; 
I've  been  too  hasty,  peevish,  proud, — I  longed  to  go 

away; 
And  now  I'd  fain  Hve  on  for  thee,  God  will  not  let  me 

stay.— 


THE    DYING    MOTHER    TO    HER    INFANT.  193 

Oh !  when  I   think  of  what  I  was,  and  what  I  might 

have  been — 
A  bride  last  year,-— and  now  to  die !  and  I  am  scarce 

nineteen  ; — 
And  just,  just  opening  in  my  heart  a;  fount  of  love,  so 

new, 
So  deep  ! — Could  that  have  run  to  waste  I — could  that 

have  failed  me  too  ? 

The  bliss  it  would  have  been  to  see  my  daughter  at  my 

side  ! 
My  prime  of  Hfe  scarce  overblown,  and  hers  in  all  its 

pride ; 
To  deck  her  with  my  finest  things — with  all'  Fve  rich 

and  rare ! 
To  hear  it  said — ''  How  beautiful !  and  good  as  she  is 

fair !" 

And  then,  to  place  the  marriage  crown  upon  tha|  bright 
young  brow  !  ^ .    .. 

Oh  no !  not,  that — 'tis  full  of  thorns  !  Alas,  I'm  wander- 
ing novir ! 

This   weak,  weak  head !    this   foolish   heart !  they'll 
cheat  me  to  the  last ; 

I've  been  a  dreamer  all  my  hfe,  and  now  that  life  is 
past. 

16* 


THE   PAINTER   OF   MUNICH. 


A    TALE, 


An  exile  and  a  fugitive,  the  wide  world  was  spread 
out,  like  a  map,  before  Lorenzo  Montesecco.  He  had 
incurred  the  jealousy  of  the  Venetian  senate ;  and, 
almost  miraculously,  escaping  the  fury  of  a  vindictive 
government,  was  now  a  wandering  outlaw,  with  little, 
save  his  own  talents  and  industry,  to  depend  upon  for 
support.  Unfortunately  for  the  adventurer,  the  Chris- 
tian world  was  at  peace  ;  his  good  sword  was,  therefore, 
useless.;  and,  bending  his  spirit  to  his  fortunes,  he 
determined  to  make  the  love  of  an  art,  to  which  he  had 
formerly  devoted  himself  for  amusement,  subservient 
to  the  more  urgent  necessities  which  now  pressed  upon 
him.  Resolved  to  trust  to  his  pencil  for  the  means  of 
existence,  Montesecco's  proud  heart-  revolted  at  the 
idea  of  exhibiting  himself,  in  the  character  of  ^n  artist, 
in  Italy,  where  so  many  person^  must,  necessarily,  be 
acquainted  with  his  name  and  misfortunes.     Germany 


THE    PAINTER    OF    MUNICH.  195 

offered  a  field  for  his  exertions,  and  a  place  of  conceal- 
ment, and  thither  he  determined  to  pursue  his  course. 
Although  intending  to  enter  upon  his  new  profession 
at  Vienna,  the  state  of  the  traveller's  finances  warned 
him  to  rest,  for  awhile,  in  the  capital  of  Bavaria,  and 
he  took  up  his  residence  at  Munich,  in  the  hope  that 
he  should  there  find  employment,  and  be  enabled,  by  the 
profits  derived  from  it,  to  prosecute  his  original  design. 
The  stranger  established  himself  in  a  suite  of  cheap 
apartments,  on  the  first  floor  of  a  house  in  a  mean  and 
narrow  street. .  Seated  by  a  small  fire,  which  the  chilly 
climate  obHged  him  to  kindle,  and  satisfying  the 
cravings  of  hunger  with  a  very,  frugal  supper,  he  felt 
all  the  loneliness  of  his  situation. 

While  surrounded  by  friends  at  Venice,' Lorenzo  had 
never  been  reminded  of  the  want  of  relatives  :  an  or- 
phan, without  brother,  sister,  or  any  near  kindred,  the 
loss  of  family  connexions  was  supplied  by  his  intimate 
acquaintance ;  but,  now,  he  experienced  the  misery  of 
being  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  without  a  single 
being  to  share  in  his  afflictions,  or  to  feel  interested  in 
the  success  of  his  undertakings. .  The  youi;ig  artist  had 
little  hope  of  tasting  the  pleasures  of  society  in  Munich, 
unless  the  grand  picture  which  was  still  to  be  painted, 
should  bring  him  into  notice ;  he  sickejied  at  the  idea 
of  communion  with  the  ignorant  and  vulgar;  and, 
aware  that  his  poverty  would  exclude  him  from  polite 


196.  friendship's   offering. 

circles,  went  to  bed  full  of  miserable  anticipations  of  soli- 
tariness, during  the  period  which  must  elapse  before  he 
could  exhibit  his  productions  to  public  view,  if,  even  then, 
they  should  meet  with  attention  from  the  great  people 
whose  patronage  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  obtain. 

>  The  first  thing  which  Lorenzo  did,  after  dressing 
himself  on  the  following  morning,  was  to  reconnoitre 
his  opposite  neighbours  :  for,  when  a  person  is  utterly 
destitute  of  friends  and  acquaintance,  opposite  neigh- 
bours become  particularly  interesting.  The  appear- 
ance, however,  of  the  adjacent  houses  was  not  very 
promising :  the  one  exactly  facing  his  own,  was  much 
larger  than  the  rest;  but  the  quantity  of  flowering 
plants,  which  were  placed  on  two  green  shelves  on  the 
front  of  the  windows,  rendered  him  almost  hopeless  of 
penetrating  the  interior :  the  next  was  even  more 
squalid  and  dirty  than  those  around  it;  and  the  third 
seemed  entirely  shut  and  deserted.  The  painter  ar- 
ranged his  apartments,  went  out  to  purchase  a  few  of 
the  necessary  articles  for, the  commencement  of  his 
work,  and,  .on  his  return  home,  was  surprised  to  find 
that  there  was  much  more  to  be  ^een  from  his  window 
than  he  had  expected.  A  pair  of  ragged  canvas 
Winds  had  been  drawn  up,  in  the  mansion  which  had 
so  much  disgusted  him,  and  disclosed  an  apartment 
furnished  in  a  tawdry  style,  but  displaying  more  of 
wealth  and  of  comfort  than  he  cotild  have  imagined, 


THE    PAINTER    OF    MUNICH.  197 

from  the  dilapidated  state  of  the  exterior.  An  old 
man,  possessing  one  of  those  singular  countenances, 
which,  invariably,  betray  the  origin  of  a  tribe  scattered 
over  the  whole  face  of  the  earth,  clad  in  mean  habili- 
ments, and  casting  a  suspicious  glance  around,^  stood 
at  the  door ;  and  a  young  female,  bearing,  in  a  softened 
image,  the  striking  hneaments  of  her  father,  looked 
out  of  the  window  to  give  some  new  direction  respecting 
the  household  affairs.  The  Jewess  was  handsome, 
and,  unhke  her  parent,  indulged  in  costly  attire.  Per- 
haps, to  a  nice  critic,  her  dress  might  have  appeared 
gaudy,  a  little  tarnished,  and  put  on  in  somewhat  a 
slovenly. manner;  but  Lorenzo  gazed  with  the  eye  of 
a  painter:  he  was  delighted  with  the  rich  contrast 
between  the  folds  of  the  yellow  turban,  and  the  dark 
masses  of  black  curls  below,  the  war  hue  of  the  purple 
vest  and  the  crimson  shawl  which  fell  in  graceful 
drapery  over  it ;  while  the  long  pendant  gold  ear-rings, 
and  the  strings  of  many-coloured  beads,  which  encircled 
the  rather  exposed  neck  of  the  beautiful  brunette, 
seemed  appropriate,  and  not  ill-fancied,  ornaments.  The 
young  Jewess,  perhaps,  not  wholly  unconscious  of  the 
admiration  which  she  had  excited,  loitered  at  the 
window,  and  played  off'  a  few  coquettish  airs,  as  if 
anxious  to  attract  further  notice.  Lorenzo  was  begin- 
ning to  detect  a  fault  in  the  object  which  had  engaged 
him,  but  his  attention  was  diverted,  by  the  appearance 


109  friendship's   offering. 

of  a  small  white  hand  wandering  amid  the  flower-pots, 
at  the  next  door :  he  gazed  upon  the  beautiful  appari- 
tion, as  the  taper  fingers  twitched  off,  here  and  there, 
a  dead  leaf,- — now  displaying  the  rosy  palm,  and  now 
resting  its  snow  upon  the  dark  foliage  of  the  myrtle. 
At  length,  in  placing  the  flowers  so  as  to  admit  Hght 
into  the  interior,  nearly  the  whole  form  of  the  operator 
became  distinctly  visible.  She,  too,  was  young,  and 
exquisitely  fair ;  her  bright  sunny  tresses  hung,  like  a 
cloud  of  amber,  round  her  dehcate  countenance ;  a 
scrupulously  clean  and  neatly-plaited  boddice,  of  cam- 
bric, rose  to  her  throat,  where  it  was  fastened  with  a 
pale  blue  ribbon ;  her  vest  and  petticoat  were  of  blue 
stuff;  and  beads  of  the  same  confined  her  full  white 
sleeves:  her  appearance  was  as  picturesque  as  that 
of  her  neighbour,  but  infinitely  more  charming.  After 
having  been  engaged,  some  time,  with  her  plants,  she 
cast  her  eyes,  accidentally,  across  the  street,  encountered 
those  of  the  gazer,  and,  blushing  deeply,  retired  imme- 
diately from  the  window^  Lorenzo  stood  rooted  to  the 
spot,  long  after  the  fair  girl  had  withdrawn  from  view. 
Every  thing  inside  the  apartment  betokened  a  rigid  sys- 
tem of  economy,  blended  with  the  most  spotless  delicacy. 
, ,  The  stranger,  strongly  interested,  yet  ashamed  of 
appearing  rude,  contrived,  by  a  couple  of  looking- 
glasses  judiciously  placed,  to  discover  all  that  was 
passing  in  the  opposite  chambers,  without  danger  of 


THE    PAINTER    OF    MUNICH.  '  199 

attracting  observation  to  himself.  The  fairest  of  his 
neighbours  pHed  her  needle  diligently,  until  interrupted, 
in  her  work,  by  an  elderly  man,  a  striking  contrast  to 
the  old  Jew  at  the  next  door:  tall  and  upright,  he 
moveTi  about  with  an  air  of  authority;  seemed  par- 
ticularly fidgety,  respecting  the  placing  of  his  long, 
laced  ,and  fringed  cravat ;  made  his  patient  attendant 
kneel  down,  until  every  wrinkle  of  the  silk  stocking, 
round  his  dwindled  leg,  was  smoothed  up  ;  and  returned 
his  nicely-folded  mantle  to  her  with  an  air  of  disgust. 
She  brushed  it  a  second  time,  re-arranged  the  drapery, 
and,  finally,  having  had  his  sword  buckled  on  to  his 
satisfaction,  the  old  beau,  for  such  he  seemed,  took  his 
hat,  and  marched  into  the  street,  picking  his  way 
through  the  dirty  children,  and  other  nuisances  which 
infested  the  narrow  avenue,  with  an  air  of  supreme 
contempt.  The  young  female,  who_  had  been  so  dili- 
gently employed  about  his  person,  had  resumed  her 
needle-work,  the  Jewess  had  flaunted  out,  and  Lorenzo, 
having  nothing  else  to  do,  repaired  to  his  "easel.  He 
spent  several  hours  in  retouching  a  head,  which  had 
been  a  favourite  study,  only  interrupted  in  his  employ- 
ment, by  occasional  glances  at  the  mirror,  in  which 
he  saw  the  inhabitant  of  the  opposite  room,  as  lonely 
as  himself,  prepare  her  scanty  dinner.  A  small  stew 
of  herbs  and  vegetables,  a  thin  oaten  cake,  and  a  glass 
of  water,  comj^osed  the  repast.  Lorenzo  longed  to  share 


'^ao  friendship's   offering. 

it  with  her ;  or,  rather,  to  add  his  own  to  it ;  and  when 
his  painting  had  reached  its  last  finish,  and  hunger  ahso- 
lutely  compelled  him  to  seek  a  meal,  he  took  the  oppor- 
tunity, while  inquiring  of  his  hostess  whether  she  could 
retommend  him  to  any  person  who  would  take  charge 
'.of  his  work,'  and  hang  it  up  in  some  conspicuous  place, 
of  putting  a  few  questions  respecting  his  opposite 
neighbours. 

Dame  Brigette,  when  her  admiration  of  her  lodger's 
performance,  which,  to  her,  appeared  a  master-piece 
of  art,  permitted  her  to  speak,  said,  that  old  Ephraim 
Manasses  and  his  wife  were  decentish  people  enough, 
for  Jews,  and  would,  doubtless,  leave  Miriam  a  hoard 
of  money-bags ;  but  that,  were  it  not  for  the  kind  heart 
and  sweet  looks  of  Miss  Bertha,  nobody  could,  or  would, 
endure  the  insolence  of  Baron  Von  Mildenthal,  her 
father,  who  was  as  proud  as  he  was  poor ;  "  some 
petty  employment,"  continued  the  old  lady,  waxing 
wroth  as  she  spoke,  "which  he  has  contrived  to  get 
at  the  Electoral  palace,  just  keeps  his  head  above 
water,  and  enables  him  to  strut  in  idleness,  while  he 
immures  his  poor  daughter  almost  from  the  light  of 
Heaven,  shutting  her  up,  and  employing  her,  all  day, 
at  work,  in  order,  that  nobody  at  Court  may  guess  at 
her  existence,  because,  forsooth,  he  is  ashamed  of  the 
mean  place  in  which  he  is  obHge^  to  live,  and  can't 
afford  to  let  the  poor  thing  brave  it  like  the  fine  ladies 


THE.  PAINTER    OF    MUNICH.  201 

of  his  acquaintance.",  This  account  deeply  engaged 
the  painter's  feelings  in  favour  of  the  fair  recluse ;  he 
pitied  her,  for  the  hardships  which  she  endured  under 
an  austere  and  selfish  parent;  and,  with  all  the  romance 
of  youth,  ahandor^ed  himself  to  the  sweetest  hopes. 
The  future,  arrayed  in  fancy's  magic  mirror^  presented 
a  prospect  full  of  felicity ; — he  was  at  the  head  of  his 
profession, .  estahhshed  in  a  handsome  house,  and  en- 
abled to  offer  his  hand  to  the  lovely  Bertha.  In  the 
interim,  it  was  necessary  to  begin  the  work  which  was 
to  lead  to  such  magnificent  results :  he  saw  his  picture 
judiciously  placed;  and  trusting  that  he  should  soon 
have  abundance  of  employment  in  portrait-painting, 
commenced  the  sketch  for  a  historical  piece,  on  which 
he  hoped  to  lay  the  foundation  of  his  fame* 

Lorenzo  was  not  long  at  a  loss  for  a  subject :  his 
own  neighbourhood  furnished  him  with  models,  and 
suggested  the  idea  of  Esther  appearing  before  Ahasu- 
erus.  Miriam,  perhapSy.  as  the  fair  pleader  was  of 
Jewish  birth,  ought  in  strict  propriety  to,  have  been 
selected  for  the  Q,ueen ;  but,  following  the  example  of 
Tintoretto,  who  has  given  his  heroine  golden  tresses 
and  a  brow  of  snow,  he  fixed  upon  Bertha  for  the 
royal  suppliant.  How  earnestly  did  he  wish  for  her 
sweet  assistance,  while  manufacturing,  from  coarser 
materials,  the  pompous  array  of  dresses  which  were  to 
shine  in  the  Eastern  court,  in  which  he  was  wont  to 
17 


202  friendship's     OFFERmO. 

attire  his  landlady  and  the  layman,  in  order  to  judge 
of  the  effect  of  light  and  shade  in  the  grouping. 

The  only  relaxation  Lorenzo  now  indulged  in,  was 
his  visits  to  the  window.  Doomed  to  eternal  labour,  he 
saw  Bertha  turn  away  from  the  half  tasted  dish  of 
»aaur  kraaut,  to  her  never-ending  embroidery.  Miriam 
was  more  happily  circumstanced :  her  doating  parents 
were  her  slaves ;  and  in  addition  to  these  anxious 
relatives",  she  had  a  handmaid  wholly  devoted  to  her 
will;  her  time,  therefore,  except  when  gadding  abroad 
to  display  her  finery,  was  chiefly  spent  at  the  window ; 
and  Lorenzo  had  abundant  opportunity  of  sketching 
her  handsome  features,  which  he  proposed  to  transmit 
to  canvas,  as  an  attendant  upon  the  lovely  Esther. 
The  painter  was  not  discouraged  in  his  task,  by  the 
speaking  glances  which  the  Israehtish  maiden  cast 
across  the  streets ;  and,  conscious  that  his  admiration 
was  not  displeasing  to  her,  he  indulged  it  to  its  full 
extent.  Seldom  were  Bertha's  blue  orbs  Hfted  up  : 
but  compelled,  soitietimes,  to  come  to  the  window  for 
air,  and  to  tend  her  plants,  the  downcast  eyes  and  timid 
look'  suited  -the  artist's  views,  for  the  imploring  Glueen, 
and  he  produced  a  touching  likeness  of  his  gentle 
favourite. 

Lorenzo's  picture  had  hung  up  long  enough  in 
Wilikind  Mayseder's  shop,  for  the  whole  population 
of  Munich  to  have    discerned  its  merits,  but  without 


THE    PAINTER    OF    MUNICH.  203 

producing  the  effect  which  the  artist  had 'so  fondly- 
anticipated.  The  expedience  of  placing  a  more  attrac- 
tive subject  by  its  side,  was  soon  apparent :  he  had 
finished:  a  beautiful  head  of  a  nymph,  which  owed  its 
chief  loveliness  to  the  charms  of  Bertha,  and  this  was 
speedily  exhibited  as  a  pendant  to  the  former  ;  the 
consequences  were  as  disagreeable  as  they  were  unfore- 
seen. But  to  Lorenzo's  surprise,  he  received  a  visit 
from  Ephraim  Manasses,  who,  bowing  and  cringing 
after  the  manner  of  his  tribe,  and  professing  his  utter 
inability  to  pay  Hke  my  lords,  the  nobles  and  princes 
of  Bavaria,  drove  a  hard  bargain  for  the  portrait  of  his 
darling  Miriam,  and  invited  the  painter  to  commence 
his  labours  immediately.  Montesecco  had  no  objection 
to  undertake  the  task,  indeed,  although  the  sum  which 
the  haggling  Jew  had  at  last  consented  to  give,  was 
scarcely  sufficient  to  cover  the  expense  of  the  oil  and 
the  canvas ;  yet  he  hailed  it  as  a  commencement  of 
patronage,  however  humble,  and  was  not  aware  of  all 
the  mischief  which  was  likely  to  ensue,  from  the  ex- 
hibition of  Bertha's  beauty,  until,  .paying  his  diurnal 
visit  to  his,  friend  Mayseder's  house,  he  saw  a  splen- 
didly-dressed Cavaher  standing,  enraptured,  opposite 
the  picture,  and  heard  him  offer  the  shopkeeper  a 
large  bribe,  to  obtain  from  the  artist  the  name  ,of  the 
original  of  so  lovely  a  portrait.  The  confident  look 
and  supercilious  air  of  this  haughty  noble  raised  Lo- 


204  friendship's    offering. 

renzo's  ire ;  but,  restraining  his  temper,  and  reflecting 
that  every  gazer  possessed  a  right  to  ask  questions 
concerning  a  picture  purposely  exposed  to  public  view, 
he  made  a  sign  of  .silence  to  Wilikind,  whose  mouth 
wag  already  open  to  announce  him  as  a  limner  wholly 
at  his  lordship's  service,  and  retired  to  the  back  of  the 
shop.  As  soon  as  the  unwelcome  visitant  had  departed, 
Mbiitesecco  charged  Mayseder  to  assure  him,  that  the 
head  with  which  he  had  been  so  much  delighted  was 
a  fancy-sketch  made  at  Rome:  he  then  inquired  out 
the  character  of  this  connoisseur  of  female  -beauty,  and 
learned  such  a  history  of  the  profligacy  of  the  cele- 
brated Count  Reichendorf^  that,  utterly  dismayed  by 
the  incaution  which  had  placed  so  charming  an  object 
as  Bertha  before  the  eye  of  the  wildest  libertine  in 
Munich-,  he  took  down  the  picture,  and  covering  it 
carefully  with  his  handkerchief,  conveyed  it,  in  haste, 
to  his  own  lodgings.  . 

The  hospitable  reception  which  Lorenzo  received 
from  the  Jew's  family,  speedily  effaced  the  remem- 
brance of  the  late  unpleasant  incident ;  but,  with  all  the 
delicacy  of  a  lover,  he  immediately  abandoned  the  sub- 
ject which  had  so  lately  occupied  all  his  time  and 
attention,  and,  notwithstanding  the  progress  already 
made  in  Esther  and  Ahasuerus,  it  was  cast  aside,  and 
the  trial  of  Susanna,  iand  the  Elders,  before  Daniel, 
substituted   in   its   stead.     The   female  form,  lest   he 


THE    PAINTER    OF    MUNICH.  205 

might  injure  Miriam  by  drawing  the  public  attention 
towards  her,  he  determined  should  be  purely  imagi- 
nary; but  Ephraim  Manasses,  and  a  visitor,  whose 
countenance  was  the  most  revolting  and  sinister  that 
Lorenzo  had  ever  beheld,  he  selected  for  the  two  accu- 
sers ;  and  the  economy  now  so  imperative,  rather  than 
any  sentiment  of  personal  vanity,  induced  him  to  sketch 
his  own  handsome  figure  for  the  youthful  prophet, 
Manasses  gladly  offered  himself  as  a  sitter,  at  the  price 
of  his  daughter's  portrait;  but  Mordecai,  the  friend, 
was  more  difficult  to  deal  with :  he  pleaded  poverty, 
the  value  of  his  time,  and  his  abject  necessities,  until 
he  had  grasped  the  last  thaler  which  the  painter  could 
possibly  give. 

Though  still  auguring  the  full  success  of  his  picture, 
Lorenzo's  enthusiasm,  and  his  spirit  also,  considerably 
abated  :  his  finances  were  reduced  to  a  very  low  ebb  ; 
and  he  feared  that  even  the  small  solace  derived  from 
his  visits  to  the  Jews,  must  be  speedily  rehnquished : 
the  looks  and  actions  of  Miriam,  though  her  tongue  was 
silent,  told  him,  that  he  had  made  a  serious  impression 
upon  her  heart ;.  and  he  was  too  honourable  to  wish  to 
engage  affections,  which  he  felt,  that,  from  the  wide 
difference  of  birth  and  of  rehgion,  he  could  never  re- 
turn. His  contemplations  opposite  to  Bertha's  window, 
also,  began  to  be  very  melancholy :  though  concealing 
herself  in  the  most  distant  corner  of  her  apartment,  and 
17* 


306  friendship's   offerino. 

barricading  the  lattice  with  flowers,  Lorenzo's  inven- 
tive genius  had  devised  the  means  of  obtaining  a  com- 
plete view  over  the  whole  room,  and  he  saw  that  his 
fair  neighbour  was  often  in -tears  ;  once,  and  only  once, 
for  a  long  time,  their  eyes  had  met,  and  he  thought 
that  she  looked  reproachfully  at  him.  The  idea,  that 
she  might  be  jealous  of  his  visits  to  Miriam,  was  very 
dehghtful;  yet  he  strove,  by  a  thousand  mute  but  elo- 
quent declarations,  to  convince  her,  that  he  was  devoted 
to  her  alone.  It  was,  perchance,  only  a  fond  conjec- 
ture, yet  it  appeared  to  him,  that  the  drooping  Bertha 
seemed  to  revive  under  the  influence  of  his  tender 
attentions.  She  seldom  went  out,  except  sometimes 
upon  a  Sunday  to  church,  or  of  an  evening,  when  her 
father  invariably  accompanied  her.  Lorenzo,  compelled 
to  content  himself  vdth  following  her  footsteps,  and 
kneeling  at  the  same  shrine,  while  she  made  her  orisons 
in  the  church  of  Notre  Dame,  was  too  much  afraid  of 
exciting  the  jealousy  of  the  Baron,  to  venture  more  than 
the  civilities  which  one  passing  stranger  might  offer  to 
another. 

Time,  meanwhile,  lagged  on.  Count  Reichendorf 
ceased  his  visits  at  Mayseder's  shop,  to  the  discomfi- 
ture of  the  trader,  who  had  sold  him  a  piece  of  dama- 
ged silk,  a  crown  an  ell  above  the  price  demanded  by 
his  fellow-mercers  for  their  best  goods,  and  a  variety- 
of  other  equally  profitable  bargains.     Lorenzo  began 


THE    PAINTER    OF    MUNICH.  207 

to  hope  that  he  had  entirely  forgotten  lineEiments  which 
had  never  since  been  presented  to  his  gaze.  What, 
then,  was  the  painter's  astonishment  and  dismay,  when 
charmed,  one  warm  morning,  with  the  full  view  of 
Bertha,  who  had  opened  the  window  to  its  utmost  ex- 
tent, and  removed  all  the  flowers — an  operation  some- 
times necessary  to  ventilate  the  confined  apartment — he 
saw  the  Count  standing  in  the  street  below,  and  survey- 
ing, with  undisguised  pleasure,  the  fair  vision  before 
him:  it  was  soon  withdrawn ;  Bertha  caught  the  bold 
glance  of  her  tiew  admirer,  and  retired  in  haste.  Rei- 
chendorf  lingered  for  a  long  time  in  the  street,  and 
Lorenzo,  cutsing  his  own  imprudence,  which  had  ex- 
posed the  loveliest  maiden  in  Munich  to  the  Hcentious 
pursuit  of  an  avowed  profligate,  could  .scarce  repel  the 
strong  desire  which  he  felt  to  drive  him  by  force  from 
the  sacred  precincts  of  the  chaste  Bertha's  abode.  He 
watched  the  intruder's  departure ;  but,  a  prey  to  num- 
berless cruel  apprehensions,  the  calm  delight  with 
which  he  had  contemplated  the  sequestered  beauty 
known  to  himself  alone,  had  vanished ;  henceforth,  he 
must  contend  with  a  rival  far  superior  in  rank  and 
fortune,  and  one  who  had  never  yet  been  known  to  fail. 
Confident  in  the  virtue  of  his  beloved,  Lorenzo  only 
feared  that  the  difliculty  of  obtaining  access  to  her 
would  induce  Reichendorf,  so  happy  in  the  power  of 
raising  her  to  the  station  which  her  beauty  and  excel- 


i?08  friendship's   offering. 

lence  justly  merited,  to  make  honourable  proposals  to 
her  father ;  and  then,  what  hope  could  remain  for  him, 
an  obscure  and  indigent  artist,  who  had  already  wasted 
his  little  substance,  with  small  prospect  of  obtaining 
even  the  common  necessaries  of  hfe,  for  which  he  had 
struggled  so  hardly?  Tormented  by  these  thoughts, 
Lorenzo  knew  it  would  be  useless  to  seek  his  couch  at 
the  early  hotir  at  which  he  usually  retired,  in  order  to 
devote  every  moment  of  daylight  to  his  pencil ;  at 
length,  in  the  hopes  of  obtaining  short  oblivion  from 
care,  he  prepared  to  retire,  but  was  stayed  by  the  tink- 
ling of  a  guitar,  an  unwonted  sound  at  such  a  time,  in 
the  quiet  street.  The  night  was  exceedingly  dark ; 
but,  opening  his  window,  he  could  perceive,  through 
the  deep  gloom,  the  figure  of  a  man  wrapped  in  a 
cloak,  and,  after  a  soft  prelude,  a  rich  manly  voice 
accompanied  thfe  instrument,  in  a  song  which  breathed 
of  love  alone :  several  casements  were  unclosed,  and 
several  hsteners  apparent  from  the  adjoining  houses  ; 
but  Lorenzo's  utmost  watchfulness  could  not  detect  the 
slightest  movement  in  Bertha's  apartment.  The  sere- 
nader  paused,  and  then  commenced  his  strain  anew : 
nor  was  it  until  the  first  grey  dawn  of  morning  had 
spread  its  faint  light  over  the  horizon,  that  the  strings 
of  his  guitar  were  completely  hushed:  Montesecco 
had  'no  difficulty  in  recognizing  Reichendorf  in  the 
minstrel ;  and,  though  this  perseverance  was  only  a 


THE    PAINTER    OF    MUNICH.  209 

fulfilment  of  his  previous  expectations,  he  felt  all  the 
pain  of  a  disagreeable  surprise. 

Throwing  himself,  for  a  few  hours,  on  the  bed,  Lo- 
renzo, after  he  had  risen  from  a  feverish  slumber,  felt 
little  desire  to  pursue  his  daily  toil :  the  appearance  of 
Mordccai,  however,  warned  him  to  commence  his  la- 
bour^ for  the  Jew  would  have,  at  least,  demanded  half 
the  price  of  a  sitting,  if  he  had  been  dismissed  with  a 
request  to  give  an  hour  to  the  artist  another  day;  and, 
anxious  to  avoid  the  storm  of  words,  and  the  extortion- 
ate proposals  which-  an  alteration  of  arrangements  never 
failed  to  produce,  he  began,  as  usual,  to  work  at  the 
picture.  Disinclined  for  conversation,  and  absorbed  in 
his  own  meditations,  it  was  some  time  before  Lorenzo 
observed  the  crest-fallen  and  agitated  countenance  ,pf 
his  yisitor:  the  dejected  aspect,  which  he  had  so  fre- 
quently assumed,  now  bore  the  stamp  of  truth;  no 
flash  from  the  quick  eye,  no  sign  of  suppressed  mirth, 
betrayed  the  triumph  of  deceit :  but  plunged,  himself, 
in  melancholy  musings,  Lorenzo  forbore  to  inquire  the 
reason  of  this  striking  alteration,  and  worked  on  ^  in 
silence.  At  length,  the  Jew  began  to  mutter,  in  an 
under  tone  : — ''  Holy  father  Abraham  !  if  there  were 
any  one  in  this  dreary  wilderness  that  I  could  trust,^ 
but  no,  no, — who  is  there  that  would  not  rejoice  at 
spoiling  the  dog  Jew  ?  who  would  not  bereave  him  of 
his  goods,  his  chattels,  his  gold,  aye  even  to  the  last 


210  friendship's    offering. 

florin  ?.  My  own  tribe  ?  ha !  ha !  they,  too,  bow  the 
knee  to  Mammon  ;  they,  too,  would  make  their  profits 
of  my  misfortune  :— -end  for  these  Christian  dogs!" — 
*' Unbehever,"  exclaimed  Lorenzo,  ^' how  darest  thou 
revile  the  followers  of  the  true  faith,  in  my  presence  ?" 
— '*  Master  !"  cried  the  Jew,  throwing  himself,  in  utter 
agony  and  abasement,  at  his  astonished  auditor's  feet ; 
— ''good  young  man,  I  have  observed  that  thou  art 
just  in  all  thy  deaHngs ;  thou  hast  not  cheated  the  poor 
outcast  of  Israel,  oi  his  hard  earnings  ;  the  strong  hand 
is  against  me ;  the  Phihstine  thirsts  after  my  coffers  ; 
the  monies  I  have  saved — it  is  but  a  small  matter — I 
have  not  pressed  the  wine-cup  to  my.  lips,  or  fed  on 
deHcacie&,  yet  I  have  Httle  for  the  robber's  clutch' — 
bulky  it  is,  and  that  will  deceive  them — perchance, 
then,- — ^but  it  is  household  stuff*,  poor,  and  of  little 
value," — "What  is  that  to  me  ?"  said  Lorenzo;  "I 
neither  know,  or  desire  to  know,  aught  about  your 
private  "concerns." — *'  I  know  thou  dost  not,"  returned 
the  Jew.  "  Thou  hast  not  pryed  into  my^  secrets^and, 
for  that,  I  trust  thee — ^but  by  what  oath  ?  Will  not  thy 
shaven  priests  absolve  thee  from  thy  promise  to  the 
Jew?"  The  painter  betrayed  his  impatience  by  an 
angry  gesture,  and  Mordecai  continued,  with  great 
velocity  of  speech :  "  There  is  not  much — much  that 
I  can  call  my  own ;  I  hold  it  in  trust  for  the  brethren  of 
my  tribe  ;  and  he,  who  would  lay  the  finger  of  violence 


•      THE    PAINTER    OF    MUNICH.  211 

upon  it,  would  have  the  cry  of  the  widow,  the  curse 
of  the  orphan,  the  fearful  vengeance  of  Heaven,  ahght, 
in  bitter  plagues,  upon  his  house  for  ever.  We  are 
despised  and  sorely  treated  ;  but  the  J^ears  of  our  suf- 
fering shall  be  at  an  end  ;  then  the  daughters  of  Jeru- 
salem shall  rejoice,  and  the  exact  Christian  eat  dust 
beneath  their  feet." — '<Art/thou  mad,  or  intoxicated 
with  wine,  old  man  ?"  said  Lorenzo,  contemptuously  ; 
and  Mordecai,  making  strong  effort  to  collect  his  wan- 
dering thoughts,  told  his  tale  with  some  degree  of  pre- 
cision. The  painter  gathered,  that  persecution  hovered 
over  the  Jews ;  that  he  himself  was  marked  out  for  de- 
struction, and  though  he  might  be  saved .  by  a  timely 
flight,  there  was  no  chance  of  conveying  away  his 
property,  and  of  this  he  besought  Lorenzo  to  take 
charge.  Refusal  only  rendered  the  Jew  more  impor- 
tunate, though  advised  to  bury  his  treasures  in  the 
ground  in  some  place  only  known  to  himself.  Morde- 
cai, wrejtched  at  the  idea  of  leaving  his  riches  to  the 
chance  of  an  accidental  discovery,  would  not  listen  to 
the  suggestion,  and,  at  length,  prevailed  upon  his 
humane  companion  to  be  the  depository  of  his  gold. 
Lorenzo's  apartments  offered  many  facihties  for  the 
concealment  of  the  Jew's  coffers,  and  of  free  egress 
without  the  knowledge  of  the  neighbours.  That  very 
evening,  the  confederates  commenced  their  operations : 
bags  and  chests  were  carefully  removed  and  placed, in 


212  friendship's   offering. 

security,  during  several  successive  nights  :  Mordecai, 
one  moment,  imploring  the  painter,  in  the  most  abject 
terms,  to  accept  the  unwelcome  office  which  he  pressed 
upon  him ;  in  the  next,  exacting  repeated  assurances, 
that  he  would  account  for  the  vast  sums  entrusted  to 
his  hands,  to  the  last  groschen. 

During  the  period  thus  employed,  Lorenzo  observed, 
that  the  house  of  Ephraim  Manasses  was  closely  shut 
up.  Poor  Miriam  was  no  longer  to  be  seen,  decked  in 
her  rich  attire,  with  one  hand  caressing  a  favourite 
bird,  and  the  other  parting  the  locks  that  clustered  be- 
neath her  turban,  on  the  warm  and  crimsoned  ,  cheek : 
the  music  of  the  serenader  had  ceased ;  yet,  once  or 
twice,  in  his  midnight  excursions  with  the  Jew,  Mon- 
tesecco  thought  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  command- 
ing figure,  steafing  rtirough  the  gloom.  He  spent 
hours  in  watching  for  Reichendorf 's  return,  resolved, 
upon  the  slightest  pretext,  to  punish  his  intrusion ;  but , 
no  opportunity  offered,  and  he  was  compelled  to  re- 
main quiescent.  A  few  days  after  the  final  removal  of 
the  miser's  wealth,  and  when  Lorenzo  supposed  him 
to  be  far  beyond  the  frontiers  of  Bavaria,  happening  to 
pass  through  the  principal  streets,  he  saw  an  immense 
multitude  of  people,  pressing  forward  with  tumultuous 
cries :  the  whole  city  was  in  a  state  of  confusion  and 
uproar,  on  account  of  a  report,  that  the  Jews  had  sacri- 
ficed a  Christian  infant,  in  some  of  their  religious  cere- 


THE    PAINTER    OF    MUNICH.  213 

monies.  This  accusation,  like  many  others  raised 
against  the  persecuted  Israelites,  was  unjust,  but  it  was 
dangerous  for  any  of  the  tribe  to  appear  in  the  streets. 
The  roar  of  the  maddened  populace  increased ;  the 
rabble  had  hunted  Mordecai  from  some  den  which  he 
had  chosen  for  his  asylum,  and  Lorenzo  beheld  him 
flying,  with  ineffectual  speed,  from  the  blood-hounds 
who  pursued.  He  was  surrounded ;  a  wild  yell  pro- 
nounced his  doom;  and  his  mangled  body,  dragged 
along  by  his  inhuman  murderers,  attested  their  atro- 
cious triumph.  Montesecco  rushed,  horror-stricken,  to 
his  home :  it  was  many  hours  before  the  image  of  the 
Jew  faded  from  his  eyes ;  but  when  the  first  burst  of 
indignation  at  the  barbarous  spectacle  he  had  wit- 
nessed had  subsided,  the  recollection  of  the  hidden 
wealth  flashed  upon  his  mind.  Mordecai's  repeated 
declarations  assured  him  that  he  did  not  possess  a 
single  relation  or  even  a  friend,  who,  in  case  of  his 
death  could  claim,  either  from  the  ties  of  kindred  or 
the  bond  of  affection,  the  gold  he  should  leave  behind ; 
and  even  admitting  that  he  had  been  entrusted  with 
the  property  of  others,  to  whom  must  restitution  be 
made.  Lorenzo  felt  that  he  had  suddenly  become  a 
rich  man.  Too  much  occupied  to  observe  the  lapse  of 
time,  night  had  closed  in  upon  his  meditations.  His  first 
impulse,  when  convinced  that  he  might  justly  consider 
himself  the  heir  of  the  murdered  Jew,  led  him  to  the 
18 


214  friendship's    offering. 

window,  whence  he  could  contemplate  the  residence  of 
his  beloved  Bertha,  with  whom,  in  imagination,  he  had 
already  shared  his  good  fortune.  A  fearful  shock 
awaited  the  lover,  for,  on  the  pavement  below  stood  a 
tall  form,  holding  tender  parley  with  the  Baron's 
daughter,  who,  covered  with  the  black  veil  which  she 
always  wore  in  her  excursions  abroad,  leaned  from  the 
open  lattice  and  whispered  to  the  stranger :  in  the  next 
moment,  the  flower-pots  were  removed,  and  Reichen- 
dorf,  for  it  was  he,  climbing  the  projecting  posts  of  the 
door-way,  sprang  Hghtly  into  the  chamber,  and  the 
window  was  immediately  closed. 

Half  suffocated  with  rage  and  despair,  Lorenzo  only 
drew  his  stifled  breath,  to  pour  curses  on  the  head  of 
the  false  fair  girl,  who  had  deceived  him  with  a  show 
of  innocence  ;  too  easily  won,  to  deserve  a  brave  man's 
sword,  he  flung  down  the  weapon,  which,  on  the  first 
flow  of  indignation  against  the  hbertine  seducer,  he  had 
drawn  to  avenge  her  dishonour,  and,  seating  himself 
on  the  ground,  gave  loose  to  all  the  agony  of  a  disap- 
pointed and  wounded  heart.  Ashamed,  at  length,  of 
permitting  his  spirit  to  be  overcome  by  a  worthless  wo- 
man, he  retired  to  his  couch,  and  there,  reckless  of 
time,  tossed  to  and  fro,  until  mid-day ;  when,  through 
mere  weariness,  he  arose,  and,  resolving  to  seek  out  a 
lodging  in  some  distant  quarter  of  the  city,  in  which  he 
proposed  to  remain  no  longer  than  the  afl^airs  connected 


THE    PAINTER    OF    MUNICH. 


215 


with  Mordecai's  now  little- valued  wealth  obhged  him  to 
stay,  he  left  the  house.  Crossing  the  street,  Lorenzo's 
path  led  him  to  the  door  of  his  neighbour,  the  Jew :  it 
was  a-jar ;  and  he  felt  his  cloak  gently  pulled  by  scttne 
one  within.  He  obeyed  the  summons,  and  was  ushered 
with  much  care  and  caution,  into  a  back  apartment, 
where  Ephraim  and  his  wife  were  sitting,  in  great  de- 
jection, on  the  ground.  "Save  us  !  Save  our  daughter 
Miriam,  the  corner-stone  of  our  house,  the  vine  branch 
that  gladdened  our  hearts  !"  they  both  cried,  as  Lo- 
renzo entered :  "  they  wifl  seize  on  our  substance,  and 
we  shall  be  cast  out — we  and  our  little  ones, — in  a 
land  more  desolate  to  our  devoted  race  than  the  sandy 
soil  of  Arabia,  unless  thou  wilt  befriend  us  :"  and  then, 
rehnquishing  even  their  religion  in  their  distress,  they 
offered  Miriam  to  him  for  a  wife ;  assuring  him,  that 
she  would  gladly  turn  Christian,  for  one  whom  she 
had  long  loved  in  secret. 

The  painter,  almost  utterly  regardless  of  his  future 
doom,  touched  to  the  heart  by  the  haggard  looks  and 
imploring  voices  of  the  miserable  parents,  and  proudly 
conscious  that,  in  the  possession  of  Mordecai's  trea- 
sures, he  could  not  be  influenced  by  the  dowry  of  the 
dark-browed  bride,  was  tempted  to  perform  an  act  of 
mercy  to  the  suppliants  who  knelt  before  him :  he  cast 
a  glance  around,  in  search  of  Miriam.  "  She  is  not 
here,"  said  Ephraim;  "we  have  conveyed  her  to  a 


216  friendship's    offering. 

place  of  greater  safety.'*  ^'  But,"  cried  the  mother, 
observing  that  their  guest's  countenance  betrayed  much 
emotion,  when  the  sufferings  that  awaited  her  darling 
were  mentioned,  "she  can  soon  be  here :  we  have  given 
her  to  the  kind  guardianship  of  the  Christian  maiden 
at  the  next  door." — ''  Ha  !"  exclaimed  Lorenzo,  in  an 
ecstacy  of  delight,  "  then  look  to  your  daughter,  old 
man !"  But  before  he  could  explain  the  reason  for  this 
caution,  a  gilded  lacquey  of  Count  Reichendorf  entered, 
to  invite  them,  in  the  name  of  Miriam,  to  the  palace  of 
his  master,  where  the  beautiful  Jewess  reigned  as  a 
queen.  A  few  minutes  only  elapsed,  before  Lorenzo 
was  at  the  feet  of  Bertha,  from  whom  he  gained  per- 
mission to  apply  to  the  Baton  Von  Mildenthal.  His 
inquiries  concerning  Mordecai  were  satisfactorily  an^ 
swered :  he  bore  too  bad  a  reputation  with  the  people 
of  his  tribe  to  be  considered  trustworthy  for  a  single 
stiver,  and  Montesecco,  having  hallowed  his  wealth  by 
devoting  a  part  to  the  church  and  to  charitable  pur- 
poses, led  his  fair  bride  to  the  altar,  and  conducted  her 
to  a  splendid  domain,  purchased  in  the  bright  land 
from  which  he  had  fled  in  sorrow  and  in  indigence. 


'UWIEtRUXti.    f^r   5§lgA\ 


THE    BURIAL   AT    SEA. 


BY    THE    EDITOR. 


Why  is  it  that  so  many  turn  away  with  a  shudder 
from  the  closing  scene  of  hfe  ?  Why  dread  we  the 
shadow  of  the  pall  which  bringeth  rest  ?  Is  then  the 
night  so  dreary  ? 

Truly,  when  it  closes  in  utter  darkness — when  the 
winds  howl  around,  and  dense  and  low  the  masses  of 
deep  cloud  oppress  the  very  air  they  float  upon,  shutting 
out  every  ray  of  heaven-horn  light — then,  night  may 
well  he  dreadful.  It  is  so  to  those  who  dare  not  claim 
the  shelter  of  a  home, — to  those  who  feel  Hope's 
whisper  failing  on  their  ear,  as  their  exhausted  powers 
sink  in  the  weary  struggle  to  discover  in  the  wilderness 
the  path  of  safety, — to  those  who,  on  the  ever-heaving 
bosom  of  the  deep,  look  up  in  vain  towards  the  silvery 
pivot  of  the  globe,  that  little  shining  speck  which,  of 
all  visible  things  in  heaven  or  earth,  alone  remains 
unchanged  ; — type  of  eternal  rest ! 

But  in  the  midst  of  gloom ;  fainting  in  the  forest ;  lost 
18* 


220  friendship's   offering. 

on  the  trackless  wave ;  or  braving  the  driving  rain  in 
the  half-hghted  streets  of  crowded  capitals,  where  every 
door  is  closed,  and  loneliness  becomes  more  lonely  by 
the  neighbourhood  of  life  ;  if,  for  a  moment,  in  the  arch 
labove,  the  storm-veil  blown  aside  reveals  that  tiny  star, 
singing  amid  the  din  of  elemental  strife,  ^'  heaven  sees 
thee  wander,"  how  falls  the  weight  from  off  the  break- 
ing heart ! 

To  those  who  claim  an  earthly  domicil,  and  all  the 
soft  endearments  of  the  domestic  circle,  that  feeble  ray 
recalls  the  memory  of  a  fond  wife's  smile, — the  little 
prattler,  waiting  impatient  for  the  well  known  knock, 
the  signal  for  quick  pattering  feet  along  the  hall,  and 
the  bold  leap  into  a  parent's  arms.  The  promise  of 
these  joys  may  not  be  for  the  morrow,  or  the  next  day, 
or  the  next,  but  while  the  heavenly  messenger  brings 
hope  into  the  soul,  it  points  the  way,  and  breathes 
assurance.  Even  to  the  outcast,  the  victim  of  the 
world's  scorn — it  may  be,  of  his  own  vices — that  same 
unchanging  star  tells  of  a  realm  of  peace.  To  him,  the 
journey  may  be  longer,  with  no  friendly  port,  no  inn 
by  the  way-side,  where  he  may  rest  his  weary  Hmbs, 
and  by  the  glowing  hearth  renew  his  energies  ;  yet  he 
feels  that  the  world's  scorn,  just  or  unjust,  though  it 
may  drive  him  from  the  fellowship  of  man,  is  powerless 
to  debar  his  entrance  at  those  gates  whereof  long-suffer- 
ing mercy  holds  the  key.     He  feels  that  even  for  him 


THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA.  221 

there  is  a  home,  though  far  away,  and  lays  him  down 
upon  his  earthen  couch,  hungry  and  cold,  but  not  devoid 
of  hope  ; — he  feels  himself  a  man,  with  strength  to  bear. 
If,  then,  the  physical  night,  even  in  its  worst  aspect, 
loses  its  terrors  at  the  first  glance  of  that  little  star 
which  guides  the  bewildered  wanderer  to  his  rest,  why 
dread  that  longer  night  which  brings  still  deeper  and 
more  perfect  rest  ?  Comes  not  bright  morning  to  the 
one  as  to  the  other?  Lack  we  the  guiding  star — the 
pivot  of  the  soul,  round  which  the  heavenly  host  revolve 
in  ceaseless  harmony,  felt  though  not  heard, — 

"  That  lures  to  brighter  worlds,  and  leads  the  way  V 

In  the  first  blush  of  youth,  when  the  untried  path  of 
life  lies  smooth  before  us,  gemmed  with  the  earliest — 
ever  the  most  beautiful— flowers  of  spring,  and  its 
green  sward  sparkhng  with  dew-drops,  while  each 
passing  breeze  comes  charged  with  odours,  it  is  reason- 
able that  the  very  thought  of  death  should  waken  an 
instinctive  tremor ;  for  who  would  not  shrink  with  awe 
to  witness  an  unnatural  night  folding  its  ebon  robe  about 
the  landscape,  before  the  noon  of  day  ?  Who  would 
not  weep  to  see  the  fading  leaf,  nipped  by  November 
frosts,  untimely  falhng  in  the  lap  of  June  ?  But  when 
the  sun  dechnes  in  its  due  course,  when  evening  or  the 
autumn  drawing  nigh  gives  notice  that  the  labours  of 
the  day  or  year  are  nearly  done,  then  sweet  and  calmly 


222  friendship's   offering. 

cheerful  should  be  the  influence  of  the  deepening 
shadows — the  oblique  and  tempered  rays  prophetic  of 
the  appointed  hours  or  days  of  rest.  And  why  is  it  not 
thus  more  generally  with  those  who  meditate  upon  the 
natural  end  of  l^fe  ? 

The  wisdom  of  that  policy — perhaps  it  would  be 
more  correct  to  say,  the  truthfulness  of  that  sense  of 
duty — which  induces  so  many  teachers  of  mankind  to 
paint  the  author  of  this  glorious  creation  in  characters 
of  gloom,  dweUing  upon  the  sterner  features  of  his 
unbending  justice,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  paternal 
tenderness  of  the  universal  parent,  may  well  be 
doubted.  Even  in  th,e  eye  of  abstract  justice,  the 
obedience  which  results  from  terror  of  the  law  bears  no 
comparison  with  that  which  flows  from  the  pure  love  of 
right : — the  one  secures  society  against  the  meditated 
outrage  which  fierce  passion,  bridled,  though  rankhng 
still,  would  perpetrate,  but  that  it  dare  not ; — the  other, 
springing  from  self-imposed  restraint,  is  virtue,  and  by 
miraculous  contagion  spreads  its  magnetic  influence 
around,  till  all  on  whom  its  shadow  falls  own  but  one 
common  sense — one  common  will.  It  is  not  in  the  act, 
but  in  the  purpose,  that  infinite  wisdom  finds  the  proof 
of  good  or  evil.  In  these,  our  latter  days,  we  five 
beneath  a  mdlder  dispensation,  breathing  of  love,  not 
vengeance, — persuading,  but  rarely  uttering  a  threat, — 
a  dispensation  which  in  its  crowning  act  gave  origin  to 


THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA.  223 

that  remarkable  phrase,  the  concentration  of  all  charity, 
"  Father,  forgive  them ;  they  know  not  what  they  do  1'* 

Let  us  then  cease  to  clothe  the  grave  with  images  of 
dread.  Religion  was  not  meant  to  cast  a  cloud  over 
the  beautiful  creation  which  leads  the  soul  from  gazing 
on  its  countless  proofs  of  the  immeasurable  goodness  of 
Almighty  power,  to  contemplate,  with  the  fond  gratitude 
of  trustful  childhood,  the  images  of  its  father  and  our 
own. 

Among  the  most  common  sources  of  the  fear  which 
causes  many  to  shun  the  humanizing  and  refining  re- 
flections awakened  by  the  thoughts  of  death,  is  the 
mistaken  idea  that  the  last  hours  of  life  are  usually 
past  in  the  midst  of  bodily  torture,  heightened  by  men- 
tal anguish,  or,  at  least,  the  awful  harassment  of  doubt, 
— the  sense  of  our  own  uhworthiness,  and  the  memory 
of  long  forgotten  faults,  looming  as  dim,  but  giant  forms, 
like  distant  mountains  in  the  exaggerating  shades  of 
twilight.  Not  so!  The  hand  that  ''tempers  the  wind  to 
the  shorn  lamb,"  as  a  general  rule,  deprives  us,  in  that 
trying  hour,  of  even  the  capacity  for  suffering ;  and,  as 
the  physical  powers  fail  gradually,  beneath  the  pres- 
sure of  the  chilling  hand  then  laid  upon  our  frame,  the 
powers  of  memory  and  reflection  too,  with  the  suscepti- 
bility to  bodily  pain,  fail  gradually  with  equal  pace. 
The  careful  housewife  delays  not  the  proper  ordering 
of  her  nightly  couch,  until  the  approach  of  ''Death's 


224 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


haii-brother,'*  unconquerable  Sleep  gives  notice  that  the 
moment  for  repose  has  come ;  but  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, while  the  sun  shines  brightly,  or  if  the  heavens 
be  cloudy  and  the  cold  wind  keen,  then  while  the 
cheerful  fire  is  crackhng  on  the  hearth,  she  tosses  and 
makes  soft  the  yielding  feathers,  smooths  down  the 
bolster  and  the  pillow,  and  as  she  hums  some  favour- 
ite ditty  well  loved  in  innocent  childhood,  arranges  the 
decent  drapery  of  her  destined  place  of  rest.  Let  not 
the  man  who  would  descend  in  peace  to  his  last  rest- 
ing place  neglect  these  preparations  till  the  night  draws 
near : — then  it  will  be  too  late ;  and  though  the  fading 
]f>ulse  of  over-wearied  nature  may  deaden  the  anxiety 
which  in  more  vigorous  hours  such  negligence  might 
well  occasion,  and  he  may  sink, — "  to  sleep  ! — per- 
haps to  dream  !"■ — unconscious  of  his  folly  ;  who  shall 
assure  him  against  the  aching  head  and  heart  that  wait 
upon  the  morrow  ? 

I  have  stood  by  a  hundred  death-beds — some,  round 
which  sorrowing  friends  and  the  bright  hghts  of  morals 
and  of  science  stood  ready  to  anticipate  each  wish  and 
to  assuage  each  real  or  imaginary  pain, — some,  where 
the  tempest  howled  along  the  deep — in  the  damp  fore- 
castle— while  oaths  and  ribald  jests,  mingling  with  the 
war  of  wave  and  storm  and  the  loud  creak  of  the  strain- 
ied  spars  and  timbers,  were  the  sole  earthly  sounds  that 
struck   upon  the   ear.     I   have  watched   the  parting 


THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA.  225 

breath  in  the  log-cabin,  among  girdled  trees,  while  flake 
by  flake  the  noiseless  snow  stole  through  the  gaping 
crevices,  and  the  httle  bare-foot  daughter  wiped  with 
her  tattered  frock  the  melting  crystals  from  the  dying 
widow's  cheek.  I  have  closed  the  eyes  of  the  forsa- 
ken and  the  lost,  nurtured  in  luxury  as  the  admired, 
the  almost  worshipped  star  of  this  earth's  heaven — 
home, — ^^to  set  in  misery  amid  the  horrible  orgies  of 
drunkenness  and  vice,  mdre  by  the  parent's  folly  than 
the  sufferer's  crime.  I  have  seen  the  last  flash  of  the 
intellectual  lamp,  as  with  one  bright  spark  of  returning 
reason,  the  maniac  soul  took  wing.  But  never  yet — 
never  hut  once — have  twenty  years  of  sad  experience 
presented  death  clad  in  the  garb  of  terror,  with  which 
some  moralists  delight  to  clothe  him.  That  once ! — 
But  reader,  I  will  not  imitate  the  fault  I  censure  ! 

The  fierce  convulsions  of  expiring  nature  are  mere 
unconscious  throes.  The  real  sufferings,  mental  or 
physical,  are  passed  before — it  may  be,  long  before — the 
final  struggle  ;  and  when  the  dreaded  monarch  at 
length  lays  claim  to  all  the  little  he  can  claim  of  poor 
humanity,  he  finds  the  victim  already  half  immersed  in 
the  lethean  wave,  beyond  the  reach  of  torture.  So  far 
as  present  sufl^ering  is  concerned,  death  to  the  dying 
comes  as  a  welcome  friend — as  the  benevolent-  physi- 
cian who  knows  not,  asks  not,  what  may  have  been  the 
virtues  or  the  crimes  which  have  preceded,  and,  per- 


826  friendship's    offering. 

haps,  produced  the  fatal  malady,  but  with  equal  hand 
administers  the  alleviating  opiate  without  a  question. 
The  survivors — not  the  lost — demand  our  present  sym- 
pathies, for  with  them  the  real  pangs  of  final  separation 
rest. — The  husband,  the  mother,  the  father  or  the  wife, 
gazing  upon  an  empty  chair,  weeping  over  some  ne- 
glected toy,  or  looking  forth  along  the  dreary  road  of 
life,  feeling  that  now,  no  earthly  arm  remains  to  stay 
the  tottering  footsteps — for  these,  death  wears  a  crown 
of  real  terrors  !  Nor  less  should  it  wear  this  aspect,  for 
those  whose  selfish  meanness  or  weak  carelessness 
assists  to  swell  the  crowd  of  miserable  victims  annually 
sacrificed  beneath  the  three-faced  Juggernaut  of  plea- 
sure, power  and  wealth, — the  idol  in  which  dwells  the 
Moloch  spirit  of  society.  It  matters  little  how  we  die, 
or  where,  being  dead,  we  lie.  The  one  great  question 
for  a  rational  being,  claiming  the  lofty  attributes  of  the 
world's  master — man,  made  in  the  image  of  his  Maker 
— is,  how  we  hve  ! — not  how  we  die  !  I  had  rather 
be  the  veriest  wretch  that  ever  starved  in  his  igno- 
rance,— breathing  his  last  on  the  unboarded  floor  of  some 
low  hovel,  driton  forth  from  the  assembly  of  mankind 
for  what  the  world  calls  vices,  born  of  that  ignorance — 
than  share,  with  the"  earth's  great-ones,  the  burden  of 
the  authors  of  those  laws,  and  those  conventional  rules 
which  made  him  what  he  is. 

Then,  let  not  our  reflections  on  the  last  parting^scene 


THE    BURIAL    AT    SEA.  2^ 

of  life  be  rendered  a  subject  of  unpleasant  thought,  to' 
be  postponed  from  year  to  year,  as  a  far  distant  evil, 
while  daily,  hourly  errors,-  unchecked  through  this 
procrastination,  combine  to  render  it  the  very  thing  we 
dread.  He  that,  in  every  undertaking,  still  contem- 
plates the  end,  can  hardly  fail. — He  to  whom  death  is 
a  familiar  object  is  likely  so  to  live,  that  when,  at  length, 
the  deep-veiled  mystery  draws  near,  its  approach  will 
be  welcome  as  winter  to  the  exhausted  forest,  or  night 
to  the  tired  labourer  in  the  field. 

Then  deck  the  grave  with  flowers !  Bring  round  it 
the  young,  the  gay,  the  thoughtless !  There  breathes 
a  calm  and  quiet  sermon  from  the  turf,  to  which  none 
listen  and  depart  unpurified  or  uninstructed* — why 
should  they  shun  such  converse?  Bring  hither  the 
forlorn  and  broken-hearted.  The  tears  that  water  the 
long  grass  are  doubly  blessed ;  for  while  they  clothe  in 
liveHer  green  the  last  couch  of  the  loved,  the  Hving 
rain  dispels  the  mists  of  sorrow  that  overshadow  the 
bereaved. 

To  him,  the  gifted  one  whose  pictured  obsequies 
called  forth  these  passing  thoughts,*  the  earth  denied 
the  darkened  chamber  and  the  sculptured  tomb— for  he 
was  of  the  family  of  fame.  What  matter!  His  is  a 
nobler    mausoleum.     Keenly    his    eye   drank   in   the 

*  Wilkie,  the  Artist. 
19 


beautiful  forms  of  nature ;  boldly  his  hand  struck  out 
the  image!  of  those  beauties  on  the  glowing  canvas. 
His  works,  deep  graven  in  imperishable  steel,  are 
spread  throughout  the  world ;  wide  as  the  world,  then, 
be  his  monument!  Not  in  his  loaded  sea-shroud,^ like 
a  true  son  of  ocean  shot  from  the  tilted  plank,  but  in 
full  pomp  of  the  funeral  rites,  he  sank  to  his  repose. 
Around  him  bloom  the  living  flowers,  strewed  in  the 
lap  of  nature's  oldest  child — the  brown  gorgonia  and 
the  waving  corralline  a,re  intertwined  about  his  pillow, 
and  the  sea-worm  on  their  thousand  branches  lights  his 
phosphoric  lamp  to  illuminate  the  twilight  of  his  place 
of  rest,  where  wind  or  wave  comes  not.  Stranger, 
wouldst  thou  shed  one  tear  above  his  grave  ? — Go, 
drop  it  in  the  sea  ! 


ISA; 


A  TALE  OF  KHORASSAN. 


BY   LORD    WILLIAM    LENNOX. 


The  scene  is  laid  during  the  attacks  made  by  the  Arabs  on  the 
Persian  empire.  At  the  celebrated  battle  of  Kudseah,  nearly  all 
the  Persian  army,  100,000  strong,  fell.  The  Arabs  lost  3,000 
men.  The  battle  of  Nahavund  decided  the  fate  of  Persia,  when 
out  of  an  army  of  150,000  men,  30,000  fell,  pierced  by  the  lances 
of  the  Arabs ;  and  80,000,  in  retreating,  were  drowned. 

The  sound  of  revelry  was  loud, in  Shahryar's  brilliant 
palace.  Azor,  the  flower  of  Persian  chivalry,  had 
returned ;  and  all  the  beautiful  and  the  brave  were 
assembled  there  to  greet  the  youthful  warrior.  All 
hearts  beat  high — music  breathed  around  its  witching 
power,  and  combined  with  the  mazy  dance  to  steep  the 
senses  in  delight.  There,  every  beauteous  race  beneath 
the  sun  was  met — there  shone  the  full  and  Jfiawn-like 
eyes  of  Persia's  daughters,  the  half-closed  glances  of 
the  Kathayan,  the  bloom  of  Georgian  cheeks,  the 
golden  ringlets  of  the  Western  isles.  On  a  throne  of 
pure  white  marble,  carpeted  with  shawls  and  cloth  of 


230  friejJdship*s   offering. 

gold,  Shahryar  sat,  arrayed  in  royal  attire.  His  only 
child,  the  lovely  Isa,  to  whose  heart  the  pageant  had 
been  like  death,  had  quitted  the  joyous  festival  to  seek 
her  lonely  bower,  to  brood  there  in  melancholy  stillness 
over  her  grief.  The  moon  was  forcing  its  tender  light 
through  gilded  lattices,  wreathed  with  woodbine,  honey- 
suckle, and  the  timid  jasmine-bud ;  and  Isa's  heart  was 
impressed  with  the  solemn  and  quiet  beauty  of  the 
scene,  heightened  by  its  striking  contrast  with  that  she 
had  quitted ;  though  sounds  of  merriment,  issuing  at 
intervals  from  the  haram,  obtruded  upon  her  ear  as  if 
in  mockery  of  her  serious  feehngs.  Gradually  yielding 
to  the  calm  and  tranquiUizing  influence  of  the  evening, 
she  took  her  lute  and  trembhngly  struck  the  chords. 
The  strain  at  first  was  wild  and  irregular,  but  soon  ran, 
as  if  unconsciously,  into  a  melody,  the  favourite  of  her 
beloved  Azor:  that  melody  was  accompanied  with  a 
voice  which  mated  well  wjth  the  tones  of  the  soft 
instrument.  The  last  notes  were  still  hngering,  as  if 
unwiUing  to  leave  their  lovely  creator,  when  a  light 
and  well-known  footstep  made  her  conscious  of  her 
lover's  approach.  He  stood  before  her,  and,  in  hurried 
accents,  said,  <'Isa,  my  betrothed,  this  night  we  part — 
before  to-morrow's  sun  has  kissed  the  brow  of  Turok, 
we  meet  the  Arab  on  the  plains  of  Kudseah.  Victory 
will  crown  our  arms,  for  righteous  Allah  will  support 
the.ji;ist :  then,  with  the  speed  of  the  eagle,  will  I  return 


231 


and  claim  my  beauteous  bride.  Bethink  thee  of  thy 
vow — may  every  saint  watch  over  thee  !" 

Isa  rephed,  in  trembhng  accents,  "  Farewell  ;^"  and 
detaching  from  her  rosary  a  golden  amulet,  fretted  with 
Arabic  characters,  she  threw  it  round  his  neck :  "Be 
this  a  charm  of  safety  in  the  hour  of  danger — may  this 
avert  every  threatened  evil."  She  paused,  for  at  that 
instant  there  burst  upon  them  from  beyond  the  grove 
that  crowned  their  solitude,  the  tramp  of  horses,  the 
shrill  call,  the  clash  of  the  cynibal,  the  ringing  of  arms. 
It  was  Azor's  signal  for  departure  :  he  started  at  the 
sounds  ;  his  hands  pressed  upon  his  beating  brow  told 
how  remembrance  throbbed  within ;  then,  throwing 
himself  upon  his  knees,  and  as  suddenly  starting  up, 
he  cried,  ' '  Oh  !  Isa,  in  vain  I  strive  to  offer  up  a  prayer 
—my  knee  may  bend,  my  hps  may  move,  but  without 
thee  I  cannot  pray." 

Isa's  head  bent  upon  his  trembhng  arm,  startled  by 
the  breathing  of  hps  that  echoed  back  her  anguish : 
she  suddenly  raised  herself ;  her  mild  eyes  looked  up 
to  heaven— eyes  whose  light  seemed  rather  given  to  be 
adored  than  to  adore ;  and,  with  a  countenance  calm 
but  sorrowful,  a  sadness  that  could  not  weep,  breathed 
an  inarticulate  prayer.  The  impatient  pawing  of  the 
ground,  the  champing  of  a  bit,  told  Azor  his  faithful 
steed  awaited  him.  In  happier  hours  Isa  had  ridden 
hhn,  when,  as  if  conscious  of  his  precious  burden,  he 
19* 


232 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


was  all  gentleness ;  now,  his  wild  nostrils  snorting,  his 
mane  erected,  he  struggled  fiercely  under  his  warlike 
equipments.  Isa  rushed  to  him,  and,  cHnging  to  his 
neck — "Rakush,  dear  Rakush,  carry  your  master  to 
victory."  Azor's  foot  was  now  in  the  stirrup — his 
burning  Hps  impressed  a  kiss  upon  her  extended  hand  ; 
her  eyes  took  their  agonizing  farewell — she  fell  sense- 
less into  the  arms  of  her  faithful  Maridah. 

Isa  had  from  her  childhood  been  affianced  to  Azor : 
the  deadly  wars  with  the  Arabs  had  taken  him  from 
her ;  but  absence  had  increased  her  love.  Hers  was  a 
pure,  deep,  ardent,  and  imperishable  feehng.  Azor 
was  the  sole  joy,  the  pride,  the  ambition  of  her  fond 
heart ;  and  never  did  saintly  martyr  dedicate  herself 
with  more  intense  devotion  to  his  faith  than-  did  Azor 
consecrate  his  heart  to  her.  Love  had.  been  to  his 
impassioned  soul  not  merely  a  part  of  his  existence,  but 
the  whole,  the  very  Hfe-breath  of  his  heart ;  and  a  purer 
shrine  at  which  to  offer  up  the  fragrant  incense  of  a 
first  affection  never  existed.  Isa's  was  not  alone  that 
lovehness  by  which  the  wilder  passions  are  captivated ; 
it  possessed  the  mind  which  sparkled  through  her  whole 
frame,  and  lighted  every  charm.  Her  playful  blushes 
seemed  but  the  luminous  escapes  of  thought ;  her  clear 
forehead  was  shaded  by  a  rich  profusion  of  glossy  hair; 
her  eyes  were  full,  and  when  stirred  by  anger  or  sur- 
prise, were  fire  itself,  but,  at  a  word  of  tenderness, 


ISA.       ~  sas 

became  subdued  and  soft.  Her  mouth  was  harmony 
and  love  ;  and  hers  was  a  form  that  could  have  spared 
from  its  rich  world  of  beauty,  charms  enough  to  have 
made  others  fair. 

In  her,  were  combined  all  that  the  spirit  seeks  for  in 
heaven,  and  all  that  the  senses  pine  for  on  earth. 
Maridah,  for  whom  she  felt  a  sister-s  affection,  had 
early  been  bereft  of  one  who  had  been  her  sole  terres- 
trial hope ;  and,  in  her  widowed  state,  the  only  feehng 
that  seemed  happiness  to  her,  or  rather  the  sole  rehef 
from  aching  misery,  was  to  see  Isa  happy.  Her  smile 
brought  to  this  faithful  friend  warmth  and  radiance 
like  moonlight  on  a  troubled  sea.  Many  had  sought 
Maridah's  hand,  but  in  vain :  the  hymeneal  chaplet 
that  first  graced  her  virgin  brow  was  withered,  and  she 
knew  no  second  vow  could  ever  bid  it  bloom  again. 
Daily  did  she  pray  and  weep  at  the  sepulchre  of  the 
dead,  strewing  the  grave  with  fragrant  blossoms,  from 
the  divine  armita  to  the  humble  rosemary  and  basil-tuft, 
looking  forward  with  meek  confidence  to  the  time  when 
their  spirits,  bursting  from  their  charnel-vault,  would 
be  reunited,  and  wing  their  way  to  eternity. 

Time  lingered  on — Isa,  the  once  fight-hearted  maid, 
with  sinking  heart  and  tearful  eyes,  now  bitterly,  day 
by  day,  mourned  her  lover's  absence.  Her  faltering 
speech,  her  estranged  look,,  her  very  beauty  changed, 
showed  too  well  how  deep  his  memory  was  graven  on 


234  friendship's    offering. 

her  heart.  The  cypress-leaf  was  withering — unsoothed 
by  rest  or  sleep,  death  seemed  approaching.  Some- 
times she  would  start  from  her  feverish  slmnber,  and 
in  the  fond  but  deceitful  thought  that  he  had  returned, 
instinctively  clasp  to  her  panting  bosom  its  disordered 
drapery.  Sometimes,  too — for  vague  rumours  of  a 
battle  had  reached  her — she  beheld  him,  in  her  troubled 
dreams,  on  the  field  of  blood,  his  scimitar  fashing,  his 
gallant  steed  springing  to  his  touch,  outnumbered,  not 
outbraved,  opposing  despair  to  daring,  his  sabre  shiver- 
ing to  the  hilt.  The  groans  of  the  dying,  the  shout  of 
Allah  Akbar,  the  cry  of  ravening  vultures,  sounded 
on  her  ears  ;  she  saw  her  lover  blackening  within  her 
arms,  parched  and  writhing  in  agony— his  ashy  lips 
approached  hers.  Maddening,  and  in  torture,  she 
awoke.  Her  dream  had  been  too  true — a  wounded 
straggler  from  the  field  brought  her  the  fatal  news  that 
her  soul's  first  and  last  idol  had  been  missing  after  the 
murderous  strife. 

Azor,  had  been  foremost  in  the  battle  ;  with  vigour- 
more  than  human  he  animated  all.  His  crimson  hand 
had  given  bloody  welcome  to  the  foe ;  now  foiling  the 
enemy's  ranks,  then  reuniting  his  own.  Wounded,  at 
last,  he  bent  senseless  over  his  saddje-bow ;  a  film  swept 
across  his  eyes ;  with  ^feeble  and  convulsive  effort  he 
raised  the  amulet  to  his  parching  lips,  then,  gasping, 
fell  senseless  to  the  ground.     Across  his  dizzy  brain 


235 


came  the  vision  of  her,  his  heart's  pure  planet,  shining 
above  the  waste  of  memory :  stupor  crept  over  his 
frame.  The  voices  of  the  exulting  foe  soon  woke  him 
from  his  transient  forgetfulness— he  tried  to  spring  all 
bleeding  from  the  earth — his  creese  was  raised  to  stab 
his  war-horse,  who  now,  masterless,  was  struggling  to 
burst  his  bloody  girth.  A  band  of  Arabs  seized  the 
chief,  and  he,  his  country's  pride,  was  doomed  to 
experience  an  exile's  sorrow.  Azor's  sufferings  were 
acute  in  mental  as  in  bodily  anguish :  he  Hngered  on  a 
wretched  existence ;  one  dear  thought  still  haunted  him  ; 
but  the  expiring  throb  of  hope  was  nearly  over. 

On  the  eighth  morning,  Maridah  entered  Isa's  apart- 
ment, and,  with  a  countenance  brightened  with  unusual 
joy,  awoke  her  suffering  friend.  "  Rise,  sister !  rise  ; 
I've  news  will  make  this  day  most  blessed  to  thee  and 
me-— see  these  lines  from  Azor,  brought  by  a  ransomed 
prisoner." 

A  faint  scream  escaped  Isa's  pallid  lips:  her  heart 
throbbed  high.  Seizing  the  scroll,  she  pressed  it  to  her 
lips ;  and,  falling  upon  her  knees,  from  her  heart's 
inmost  core,  breathed  a  fervent  prayer ;  then,  with  a 
glow  of  rapture^,  she  threw  herself  into  Maridah's  arms, 
wildly  exclaiming,  ''Allah  be  praised!  he  lives!  a 
captive — yet  he  lives  !"   ' 

Shahryar,  whose  territory  was  threatened  by  the 
powerful  Abdallah,  sought  the  alliance  of  the  CaHph 


83^ 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFTERING. 


Istkahar,'  unhappily  one  of  the  many  slaves  of  Isa's 
charms.  He  had  offered  ransom  for  the  captive,  Azor 
— the  terms  struck  heavy  upon  a  father's  ears :  they 
were  the  hand  of  his  affianced  child.  In  vain  did  his 
better  nature,  his  paternal  feeling,  struggle  with  his 
people's  welfare  ;  suffice  it  to  say  he  consented  to  sacri- 
fice his  child.  Isa  heard  his  determination  with  calm 
resignation— even  without  a  murmur.  She  saw  but 
one  vray  to  extricate  herself,  and  resolved  to  adopt  it. 

Istkahar  Was  hourly  expected  at'Merou:  the  nuptials 
were  to  be  celebrated  in  the  most  sumptuous  manner. 
The  morning  arrived ;  the  rising  sun  seemed  to  visit 
with  unusual  splendour  the  poHshed  domes,  the  fretted 
minarets,  and  stately  towers.  Like  an  eastern  queen, 
decorated  to  receive  her  lord  returning  from  triumphant 
warfare,  so  was  the  royal  city  arrayed  in  all  her  gala 
decorations;  and  the  young  morning  breeze  sported 
joyously  with  ten  thousand  banners,  making  them 
to  flaunt  and  flicker  with  their  gaudy  folds,  and  to 
seem  like  hving  inhabitants  of  the  deep  azure  of  the 
Persian  sky.  The  bridal  cavalcade  was  one  unbroken 
line  of  splendour  to  the  beholder's  eye :  to  Isa  it  was  a 
melancholy  funeral  pageant.  Through  the  apartments, 
rich  with  arabesque  painting  and  gilding,  flowers  and 
censers  breathing  sweets,  Isa  roamed  almost  bewil- 
dered. To  her  it  was  a  maze  of  light  and  lonehness — 
the  pomp  of  the  scene  was  in  opposition  to  her  feelings. 


ISA.  237 

Paler  than  the  marble  pillar  against  which  she 
leaned,  Isa  awaited  the  sacrifice :  her  anxious  friend 
Maridah  was  by  her  side,  and  privately  conveyed  to 
her  a  small  casket,  which  Isa  concealed  within  her 
vest.  The  spacious  hall  was  now  crowded ;  the  con- 
tract was  read  ;  Isa's  trembling  fingers  seized  the  pen, 
and  signed  the  fatal  deed.  The  tidings  spread  ;  mes- 
sengers were  dispatched  to  the  Arab  camp.  The  cere- 
mony was  proceeding.  Isa  was  now  called  upon  to 
pledge  her  vow  at.  the  altar :  she  approached  it  with 
firm  step ;  then,  taking  the  mysterious  casket,  was 
about  to  press  it  to  hej  hps,  wh6n  a  thrilling  cry  of 
Azor  reached  her  ear.  Every  eye  turned  towards  the 
corridor — there  Azor  stood,  his  desperate  hand  raised 
towards  heaven ;  and,  almost  inflamed  to  madness,  he 
shouted,  ^*  Isa  !  thy  vow  ! — by  the  remembrance  of  pur 
once  pure  love  ! — ^thy  vow  ! — ^heaven  ! — vengeance  !" 

"Oh,  curse  me  not^  dear  Azor  !"  Isa  wildly  repHed; 
"it  was  grief,  it  was  madness  caused  it  all.  Doubt 
not,  my  love :  when  every  hope  was  over,  when  fright- 
ful voi<5es  told  me  thou  wert  lingering  in  captivity,  I 
thought  but  of  thy  freedom — I  would  have  purchased 
thy  ransom  with  my  life — my  brain  gave  way ;  and 
think  how  maddened  I  must  have  been  when,  to  save 
thee,  I  courted  death  !  Be  not  deceived — death  is  the 
bridegroom  that  awaits  me  !" 


238  friendship's   offering. 

Azor  rushed  forward,  dashing  the  casket  from  her 
hand,  sprang  into  her  arms,  and  clasped  her  in  speech- 
less ecstacy. 

Istkahar,  who  had  witnessed  this  scene  with  intense 
interest,  a|)proached  Isa,  and,  uniting  her  hand  with 
Azor's,  tore  the  contract.  At  this  generous  action  the 
shouts  of  Allah  echoed  through  the  halls — the  warriors' 
swords  were  pointed  to  heaven  ;  whilst  the  harem's 
loveliness,  waving  their  emhroidered  scarfs,  made  the 
air  resound  with  the  hridal  song :—        .       '      -    r 

"  MAibiirak  bid !  Mubdrak  bdd  ! 

Auspicious  may  your  fortunes  be  ; 
•       And  ever  may  your  hearts,  still  glad, 
,~  '     Respond  to  nuptial  revelry.  .• 

Mubdrak  bdd !  Mubdrak  bdd !" 

The  ceremony  proceeded  ;  and  never  did  earth  he- 
hold  a  sight  more  beautiful,  when,  as  the  rays  of 
heaven  (descending  on  the  altar)  shed  their  holy  beams 
upon  each  brow,  they  knelt  before*  that  shrine,  at  the 
foot  of  which  she  would  have  immolated  herself — their 
hands  clasped  in  one,  -thus  fondly  pledged  to  Hve  and 
die  together. 


THE    FOREST: 

"    ^  A    FRAGMENT. 

BY    MRS.    E.    G.    GOODWIN    BARCLAY. 

Night  in  the  forest !     Solemn,  dreamy  night ! 
And  through  its  aisles  so  gloomy,  silent,  dim, 
Echoes  the  whip-poor-will's  sad  evening  hymn ; 
Dark,  traiHng  shadows  slowly  gather  round ; 
And  human  footsteps  shun  the  haunted  ground : 
Here,  frowning  rocks  majestic  loom  on  high. 
Till,  Titan-like,  they  seem  to  touch  the  sky ; 
There,  tower  aloft,  in  wavy  masses — vast — 
The  ancient  trees,  and  rustle  in  the  blast ; 
Spreading  a  shade  so  dense,  the  starlight  glow 
Rests  on  their  tops,  nor  penetrates  below. 

F^rimeval  forest !     Monument  of  time ! 

Thou  art  magnificently  grand ! — sublime, 

When  midnight's  stormy  arms  around  thee  thrown 

Thy  giants — trembling — ^bending — shriek  and  groan, 
20 


240  friendship's   offering. 

As  if  destruction's  vulture-wing  out-spread 
Had  doomed  them  to  a  place  among  the  dead ! 
Hark !  how  they  moan,  as  with  a  living  tone, 
While  their  broad  branches  on  the  air  are  strewn ; 
Yet  they  defy  the  tempest's  mighty  power : 
Why  should  they  dread  the  shock  of  one  short  hour- 
Those  veterans  of  centuries  ? 


# 


THE    SLEEPING    PARTNERS; 

A  SKETCH  OF  THE  HARD  EROST: 
BY  T.  C.  GRATTAN,  ESQ. 

The  snow  had  lain  for  several  weeks  in  crisp  masses 
on  the  streets  and  boulevards  of  Brussels,  and  its  sur- 
face was  worn  as  smooth  and  slippery  as  glass,  by  the 
few  coaches  that  phed  during  the  inclement  weather, 
and'  the  numerous  traineaux,  or  sledges,  for  which  this 
inclemency  was  the  very  harvest-time.  Nothing  could 
be  more  animated  than  the  general  appearance  of  these 
vehicles,  and  few  things  more  absurd  when  examined 
in  detail.  Their  brilliant  colours  and  gildings,  the 
gay  plumes  and  caparisons  of  the  horses,  and  the  fan- 
ciful costumes  of  the  drivers  and  the  driven,  formed  a 
striking  and  picturesque  combination  when  gazed  at 
from  a  distance;  but  when  one  closed  in  upon  the 
imposing  train  that  whisked  by  so  rapidly,  and  inspected 
its  motey  materials,  every  individual  machine  was  but 
a  galloping  illustration  of  the  bathos.     A  few,  being 


243 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


private  property,  had  some  slight  pretensions  to  taste 
in  their  decorations ;  but  the  great  majority,  hired  out 
for  each  occasion,  were  gaudy  and  flimsy  receptacles 
for  a  poor  vanity,  which  braved  the  annoyance  of  their 
cramped  accommodations  and  the  piercing  cold,  for 
the  glory  of  being  stared  at  by  the  crowds  that  thronged 
the  flagged  ways  round  the  park,  which  was  the  grand 
scene  of  exhibition. 

Those  who  have  never  seen  a  traineau  may  be  glad 
to  know  that  it  is  a  sort  of  car,  or  shell — for  such  is,  in 
most  cases,  its  fantastic  shape — without  wheels ;  capa- 
ble of  containing  one  person,  with  moderate  discomfort ; 
or  two,  painfully  wedged  together.  On  a  peak,  behind, 
the  driver  places  himself  astride,  and  w;ith  his  feet 
resting  on  the  shafts  which  shoot  out  in  the  rear  and 
terminate  in  an  united  point,  he  guides  his  horse  or 
horses,  by  reins  of  cord  coming  most  awkwardly  over 
the  shoulders  of  the  person  in  front.  It  requires  no 
small  cleverness  to  preserve  his  equilibrium,  while  he 
leans  to  the  right  or  left,  having  at  one  and  the  same  time 
to  look  sharply  out  after  his  shambhng  steeds,  and  to 
keep  up  his  soft  whisperings  into  the  ear  of  the  furred 
fair  one,  for  the  honour  of  driving  whom  he  suffers  such  a 
straddle-legged  gibbeting.  It  is  something  awful  to  look 
at  these  Jehus  when  they  have  a  couple  of  awkward 
horses  to  manage,  either  a-breast  or  tandem,  curveting 
at  every  curve  in  the  course,  running  at  wrong  angles 


THE    SLEEPING    PARTNERS.  243 

wherever  a  corner  is  to  be  turned,  and  threatening 
utter  annihilation  to  the  frost-bitten  face  of  the  poor 
lady  placed  at  the  mercy  of  their  hoofs.  The  prow  of 
the  car  is  always  shaped  and  coloured  in  the  abomi-^ 
nable  likeness  of  some  dragon  or  hippogriff,  or  other 
monster  of  ughness ;  some  wagging  their  heads  or 
flapping  their  wings  with  the  motion  of  the  sledge,  or 
shaking  out  tongues  of  flame-coloured  tin,  or  staring 
with  a  large  pair  of  green  glass  goggle  eyes — meant 
altogether  to  look  very  funny. 

These  eflbrts  at  pleasantry  are  generally  failures ; 
but,  to  an  Enghsh  eye,  nothing  can  be  more  irresistibly 
ludicrous  than  the  sober  seriousness  of  the  attempt 
at  style,  in  these  and  other  equipages.  The  gaudy 
liveries  and  grotesque  accoutrements  of  the  grooms  and 
coachmen  form  a  virtual  act  of  bankruptcy  against  de^ 
scription.  The  cocked-hats,  broad-flapped  laced  coats, 
and  Hessian  boots,  of  the  footmen,  bid  defiance  to 
prose  or  poesy ;  but  the  appearance  of  a  jocki,  such 
as  is  an  indispensable  atrocity  in  the  completion  of  a 
traineau  equipment,  really  out-Punches  Punch.  A 
continental  Jocki  is  decidedly  the  most  unhappy  possi- 
ble specimen  of  human  degradation;  for,  unlike  the 
tumblers  and  rope-dancers  of  a  fair-green,  he  does  not 
put  himself  in  masquerade  or  exhibit  himself  for  his 
own  amusement  or  profit,  but  merely  in  accordance 
with  his  master's  vitiated  taste,  which  is  invariably  as, 
20* 


244  friendship's    offering. 

bitter  bad  as  that  of  rhubarb,  gentian,  and  camomile, 
combined.  These  unhappy  caricatures  precede  the 
traineauXf  on  huge  high-trotting  steeds  with  long  tails ; 
and  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  any  thing  more  pain- 
fully risible  than  their  appearance,  jogging  away  in 
high-peaked  saddles,  long  stirrups,  jackets,  hunting- 
caps,  wide  leather  breeches,  and  troopers'  boots.  To 
disfigure  their  domestics  out  of  all  semblance  of  regular 
respectabihty  seemed  to  be  a  study  with  the  Dutch 
nobihty  of  those  days;  for  I  speak  of  a  time  some  years 
back,  when  the  heavy  hand  of  the  Hollander  crushed 
all  the  buoyancy  of  Belgian  spirit  and  taste.  Attached 
to  one  frightful  equipage — a  huge  German  landau,  with 
the  wheels  taken  off,  tied  on  a  sledge,  and  dragged  on 
at  the  slowest  possibly  rate — ^was  a  coachman  in  purple 
livery,  a  footman  in  dark  green,  and  a  cadaverous- 
looking  jocki,  of  about  sixty  years  of  age  and  six  and 
a  half  feet  high,  in  a  bright  yellow  jacket  and  pink 
cap!  It  looked  as  if  each  servant  had  snatched  a 
stripe  from  a  rainbow,  and  clothed  himself  in  it  at 
random. 

But  there  was  one  exception  to  these  execrable  com- 
binations, in  the  droski  of  the  Prince  of  Orange.  This 
was  a  present  from  the  Emperor  of  Russia,  and  was, 
in  its  ensemble,  such  a  contrast  to  the  traineaux,  that 
one  was  surprised  at  the  dulness  which  failed  to  attempt 
an  imitation,  or  the  callousness  to  ridicule  which  al- 


THE    SLEEPING    PARTNERS.  245 

lowed  so  many  persons  to  put  their  miserable  equipages 
in  perpetual  contact  with  it.  It  was  lightly  built, 
strong,  free  from  all  gaudiness  of  colour  or  decoration  ; 
driven  by  a  regular  Cossack,  in  his  native  costume  and 
long  bushy  beard,  and  drawn  by  a  pair  of  thorough- 
bred horses,  light  limbed,  and  long  tailed,  one  of  which, 
with  his  head  ardently  forward,  trotted  at  his  full 
speed  of  a  dozen  miles  an  hour ;  while  the  other,  with 
curved  neck,  and  head  held  low  down  by  a  tight  mar- 
tingale, galloped  along  at  the  same  pace,  most  grace- 
fully varying  the  interest  of  the  exhibition. 

This  equipage,  no  doubt,  would  have  found  some 
attempts  at  imitation,  had  not  its  owner  been  far  from 
popular  in  those  days  among  his  countrymen ;  for  he 
was  then  an  Enghshman  in  manners,  a  Belgian  in 
heart,  and  a  Hberal  in  politics. 

I  don't  know  how  I  have  happened  to  linger  so  long 
on  these  je  collections  of  the.  ludicrous  and  amusing,  for 
the  main  subject  of  my  sketch  is  of  a  far  different 
nature.  It  may  appear  incongruous  to  approach  a 
painful  topic  in  a  mood  of  merriment.  In  entering  the 
chamber  of  death,,  we  ought  not,  perhaps,  to 

"  Trip  it  gaily,  as  we  go, 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe"~ 

Yet  if»  in  the  sad  varieties  of  life,  pleasure  is  fenced 
round  with  pain ;  if  the  rose  cannot  be  plucked  without 


846  friendship's    offering. 

our  first  feeling  the  thorns,  it  may  not  be  an  inde- 
corous philosophy,  after  all,  that  would  festoon  with 
"wreathed  smiles"  the  portal  which  leads  to  the  in- 
evitable grave. 

During  that  hard,  hard  frost  of  1829 — 30,  when  all 
that  was  bright  and  generous — wine,  wit,  even  charity 
-^seemed  at  least  benumbed,  and  all  the  social  enjoy- 
ments shrunk  from  a  wide-spread  circle  into  a  point, 
the  poor  of  Belgium,  always  in  a  frightful  mispropor- 
tion  to  the  general  population,  suffered  intensely. 
Many  were  the  families  cramped  by  cold  and  thinned 
by  famine.  Benevolence  freely  paid  its  heavy  tax. 
The  wards  of  the  hospitals  were  full,  and  the  hearts  of 
the  home  patients  as  well ;  for  many  a  stove  was  with- 
out fuel,  and,  oh,  how  many  a  stomach  without  food ! 
It  was  altogether  a  heart-rending  season;  one  that  nei- 
ther body  nor  mind  is  Hkely  to  forget. 

But  the  pecuhar  featui^e  of  this  hard  winter,  in  Brus- 
sels, the  marked  circumstance  which  fixes  it  more 
particularly  in  my  memory,  was  the  decree  of  night 
banishment  issued  by  the  authorities  of  the  city  against 
that  wretched  class  of  beings  who  have  always  pos- 
sessed an  extraordinary  claim  on  my  sympathy, — the 
wandering,  idle,  lazy,  houseless,  friendless  Savoyards. 
In  no  season  or  country  are  those  poor  boys  any  thing 
in  my  eyes  but  objects  of  great  compassion.  Even  in 
the  native  freedom  of  their  own  glorious  mountains, 


THE    SLEEPING    PARTNERS.  247 

they  are  marked  as  vagabonds  and  outcasts ;  e very- 
youthful  brow  seems  to  bear  Cain's  mark;  yet  they 
have  killed  no  brother,  nor  taught  a  new  crime  to  their 
little  world.  Born  as  it  were  on  speculation,  reared 
from  the  mother's  lap  like  some  animal  fattened  for  the 
market,  doomed  to  banishment  from  the  cradle  up,  they 
have  no  tendril  ties  binding  their  young  hearts  to  home, 
no  hnks  of  family  love,  no  hope  of  domestic  quiet,  no 
haven  of  peace  towards  which  to  look.  To  turn  out 
on  life's  broad  highway  and  to  beg,  is  their  foredoomed 
career,  as  «oon  as  ever  their  legs  are  strong  enough  to 
carry  into  execution  the  sentence  which  is  born  within 
them. 

What  can  such  mothers  as  theirs  care  for  such  ofP- 
spring  as  they?  How  little  of  the  common  culture 
which  the  female  heart,  even  in  the  savage  wilds  of 
Africa,  lavishes  on  its  offspring,  can  fall  to  the  lot  of 
those  unhappy  weeds,  flung  on  the  world's  wide  ocean, 
to  swim  or  sink  by  chance !  Their  marmots  or  their 
mice,  the  sole  friends  of  their  destiny,  are  better  off 
than  they,  for  they  have  minds — the  splendid  curse  of 
the  unfortunate ! 

Not  one  excitement,  not  one  enjoyment  brightens  the 
path  of  the  Savoyard  child,  who  turns  his  back  on  the 
high  places  of  his  birth,  to  brave  the  dangers  of  the 
populous  waste  which  spreads  before  him,  interminably 
hopeless.     Degradation  of  the  basest  kind  awaits  him 


848  friendship'*     OFl^KRING^ 

on  the  very  threshold  of  theoivorld.  His  passport  is 
signed  and  sealed  in  miserj'.  Some  servile  trick  of 
imitation,  some  cringing  tones  of  mock  hilarity,  coarse 
raiment,  a  hard  couch,  scant  food,  a  tyrant  taskmaster, 
form  the  bright  side  of  the  picture  in  which  he  is  the 
main  figure:  but  imagine  him  in  ill  health,  in  cold, 
htmger,  desolateness,  and  despair !  Who  does  not  feel 
a  heart-cramp  as  he  looks,  at  the  poor  beggar-boy,  and 
gives  himself  one  moment's  time  to  think  ? 

Well ;  it  so  happened,  that  in  the  very  depth  of  the 
hard  winter  Brussels,  was  unusually  populous  of  those 
parias  of  the  civilized  world :  a  shoal  of  them,  on  its 
way  to  England,  had  been  stopped  short  by  the  cruel 
frost.  Even  the  instinct  of  suflTering  bom  with  the  Sa- 
voyard boys  could  not  stand  against  the  pinching  tor- 
ments of  that  seeison.  The  ice-covered  roads  wore  out 
their  weary  feet ;  the  keen  wind  pierced  their  flimsy 
rags,  and  cut  them  to  the  heart.  They  could  move  no 
further ;  and  Brussels  seemed  a  heaven  to  the  hapless 
group. 

For  some  days,  they  revelled  in  all  the  ignominy  of 
street  antics.  They  pattered  on  the  hard  snow,  and 
played  on  their  cracked  viols,  and  threw  out  their 
smiles  and  quirks  with  the  plaintive  meanness  of  men- 
dicant sohcitation.  The  pubHc  heart  was  not  yet  quite 
congealed ;  purse-strings  were  opened,  and  the  poor 
Savoyards  picked  up  a  passing  store  of  charity.     But 


THE    SLEEPING    PARTNERS.  249 

the  conscience  of  the  corporation  at  length  became 
frost-bitten.  Fear  lest  the  native  pauperism  might  by 
and  by  want  supplemental  funds,  and  the  patrician 
stores  be  mulcted  for  some  new  forced  loan,  prevailed 
on  "the  authorities"  to  launch  an  ordonnance,  com- 
manding the  hapless  <<  vagabonds"  whose  jery  title  is 
their  patent  for  general  compassion,  to  sleep  without 
the  walls.  This  extra  muros  banishment  was  attempt- 
ed to  be  justified  by  the  imputation  flung  on  the  out- 
cast tribe,  of  being  the  chief  depredators  in  the  nightly 
pilferings  to  which  misery  drove  many  a  man  in  those 
cruel  times,  to  save  himself  and  his  family  from  perish- 
ing. 

It  needs  hardly  to  be  stated  that,  in  this  instance,  like 
almost  all  others,  the  mass,  which  in  this  nether  world 
must  ever  be  "worldly,"  were  willing  enough  to  let 
their  prejudices  range  on  the  side  of  power,  and  not 
sorry  for  an  excuse  to  check  the  sympathies  which, 
mayhap,  rose  up  in  favour  of  the  oppressed.  Men  in 
general  are  very  angry  at  the  imputation  of  weakness, 
except  when  it  implies  a  tendency  to  be  generous ;  but 
even  then,  while  boasting  that  they  have  been  fool&, 
they  resolve  to  put  a  padlock  on  their  liberality,  out  of 
all  possibility  of  being  picked.  Many,  therefore,  re- 
joiced in  the  moral  branding  inflicted  on  the  reputations 
of  the  poor  Savoyards,  as  an  excellent  reason  for  reject- 
ing their  importunate  appeals.    Such  epithets  as  "la^y 


250  friendship's     OFFERmo.' 

dog,"  "  little  rogue,"  <'  idle  scoundrel,"  and  the  like, 
were  lavished  freely;  and  meanwhile  the  wretched 
boys  were,  like  poor  Tom,  ^'a-cold." 

And  so  were  the  marmots,  the  white  mice,  and  the 
monkeys,  who  partook  the  drudgery  of  their  masters' 
prosperity,  and  bore  a  full  part  in  their  privations. 
While  the  boys  began  to  droop  and  shiver,  and  grow 
day  by  day  more  listless,  as  coughs  and  catarrhs  op- 
pressed them  and  their  gnarled  limbs  became  stiffened 
and  swoln,  the  less  sentient,  but  as  suffering  animals 
shared  amply  in  the  sad  companionship.  Crouching 
in  their  cages,  the  mice  refused  to  run  the  wonted 
round  of  their  wire-work  cylinders ;  the  marmots  rolled 
themselves  sluggishly  up ;  and  a  frost-spasm  seemed  to 
warp  and  curdle  those  crabbed  mimicries  of  man, 
which  mow  and  chatter  as  he  grins  and  talks,  and 
jump  as  he  struts,  and  do  not  "  imitate  humanity  so 
abominably." 

Among  the  whole  of  the  scattered  community  I  am 
describing,  I  never  observed  any  thing  Hke  a  partner- 
ship but  in  one  instance.  Those  Savoyard  boys  are 
most  unsocial  beings;  their  principle  is  evidently 
<*  every  one  for  himself."  They  almost  always  go 
about  singly;  and  seem  to  avoid  each  other's  beats. 
Selfishness  is  forced  upon  them  by  their  isolation  ;  and 
it  is  the  only  case  in  which  this  odious  vice  may  be 
pitied  as  a  misfortune,  rather  than  loathed  as  a  fault. 


THE    SLEEPING    PARTNERS.  25-1 

There  were  two  of  those  boys,  however,  whom  I  ob- 
served frequently  together :  one  was  about  twelve  years 
of  age,  the  other,  perhaps,  a  year  older.  They  had 
each  a  monkey ;  and  the  intimacy  appeared  not  to  be 
confined  to  the  bipeds ;  for,  while  they  crouched  in 
some  corner  nook,  sheltered  from  the  blast,  and  counted 
their  money,  or  discoursed  unfathomable  secrets  in 
their  native  patois,  the  monkeys  used  to  cuddle  to- 
gether, scratch  each  other's  backs,  or,  while  one  ludi- 
crously "  trimmed  the  other's  jacket"  with  a  piece  of 
dirty  apple  or  orange-peel,  and  the  other,  perhaps, 
settled  the  draggled  feather  in  his  comrade's  cap,  they 
mutually  grinned  most  ghastly  smiles ;  or,  at  times, 
looked  so  profoundly  melancholy  and  miserable,  that 
one  was  tempted  to  beHeve  mere  physical  suiFering  in- 
capable of  giving  such  keen  expression  to  a  counte- 
nance. But  this  was  matter  of  speculation:  what 
follows  is  matter  of  fact. 

On  one  of  the  bitterest  of  those  cruel  mornings,  in 
about  the  fifth  week  of  the  frost,  I  had  occasion  to  pass 
early  between  the  two  palaces  of  the  King  and  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  a  station  where  the  partie  carree  just 
mentioned  were  wont  to  fix  themselves,  to  catch  stray 
passengers,  before  the  idle  and  money-giving  part  of 
the  population  were  abroad.  There  was  scarcely  any 
one  on  the  Boulevards,  and  not  a  creature  to  be  seen 
in  or  about  the  park  :  there  was,  therefore,  no  audience 
21 


252  FlilENDSHIP's     OFFERING. 

-on  wliich  to  work,  and,  consequently,  no  acting  in 
what  I  observed. 

Low  crouched  beside  a  corner  pillar  was  one  of  the 
unfortunate  beings  above  alluded  to,  moving  his  body- 
backwards  and  forwards  and  sideways,  all  at  once,  as 
it  were,  with  the  heaving  roll  so  comnion  in  great 
physical  pain — ^but  it  is  not  exclusively  so  caused.  In 
this  case  it  was  induced  by  intense  sorrow — the  poor 
fellow's  monkey  was  dead  in  his  arms,  and  he  sobbed 
and  moaned  over  it  as  though  his  heart  was  breaking, 
and  hugged  it  to  his  bosom  as  if  he  would  force  it  back 
to  life. 

I  know  what  a  delicate  subject  I  touch  on  here :  from 
sentiment  to  absurdity  there  is  scarcely  a  greater  space 
than  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous.  The  -  genius 
of  Sterne  could  barely  save  the  mark.  A  dead  horse 
or  dog  finds  ready  mourners,  where  an  ass  or  a  monkey 
meets  derision.  Humanity  has  httle  sympathy  for 
what  resembles  it  the  most.  Nature  does  not  love  the 
mirror  that  is  held  up  to  it :  but  if  men  would  be  less 
sensitive  to  these  personal  reflections,  and  forgive  the 
libels  of  creation  in  spite  of  their  truth,  they  could  hot 
resist  a  keen  feeling  of  compassion  for  the  fate  of  a 
poor  monkey,  dragged  prisoner  from  the  abounding 
paradise  of  his  native  woods  to  the  ignoble  doom  of 
amusing  and  mimicking  such  beings  as  compose  the 
mass  of  mankind,  and  then  fated  to  die, — how  ?     Who 


THE    SLEEPING    PARTNERS.  253 

ever  thought  of  inquiring  into  the  average  modes  of  de- . 
struction  to  v^^hich  these  miserable  animals  are  doomed, 
or  of  calculating  their  previous  certainties  of  suffering  ? 
Naturalists  and  philosophers  have  taken  great  pains  to 
study  the  whole  species,  and  still  greater  to  persuade 
their  fellow  men  that  they  are  by  no  means  so  like  it 
as  they  seem  to  be  :  but  there  is  an  instinct  of  stubborn 
consciousness  within  us  which  behes  their  reasoning ; 
and  there  was  more  real  nature,  and  probably  as  much 
true  philosophy,  in  the  grief  of  this  poor  Savoyard  boy 
far  the  lose  of  his  second  self,  than  in  the  scepticism  of 
half  the  writers,  from  Alpha  to  Omega,  or,  as  Tony 
Lumpkin  would  have  stated  it,  from  A  to  Izzard. 

"Where  is  your  friend?"  asked  I  of  the  poor 
mourner,  as  I  gave  him  a  small  piece  of  money — so 
small  that  I  need  not  be  afraid  that  my  mentioning  the 
fact  will  be  mistaken  for  ostentation, — so  small  that  my 
right  hand  might  have  blushed  had  it  known  what  the 
left  was  doing. 

"  Here,  here  !  I  have  no  friend  now,"  was  the  reply, 
sobbed  out  with  action  suited  to  the  words,  and  both 
one  and  the  other  acutely  touching. 

«  Well,  well;  I  mean  your  comrade— where  is  he  ?" 
was  my  next  inquiry. 

<'I  don't  know — I  don't  care — I  did  not  think  of 
him ;"  and  a  new  burst  of  lamentation  told  who  he  did 
think  of. 


254      *  FRIENJ)SHIP'S     OFFERING. 

"It  is  very  unfortunate,"  said  I,  "  but  you  must 
now  take  care  of  yourself;  crying'  will  do  no  good,  you 
know ;  and  it  is  well  for  the  poor  thing  to  be  dead,  and 
out  of  misery ;  and — " 

A-nd  I  might  have  run  on  stringing  commonplaces, 
like  an  old  woman  counting  her  beads,  had  not  the 
Savoyard  turned  upon  me  such  a  look  of  brimful  and 
simple  reproval,  that  I  was  quite  ashamed  of  myself. 
.  I  thought  I  could  read  in  it  a  whole  volume  of  refutation 
to  my  stale  condolements  ;  and  I  felt  that  it^was,  after 
all,  as  impertinent  to  worry  this  poor  child  with  argu- 
ments about  his  deceased  brute,  as  it  would  be  to  check 
the  grown-up  anguish  of  an  adult  for  a  departed  friend. 
It  is  monstrous  to  lay  down  limits  for  affection ; — that 
monkey  was  better  worth  mourning  than  many  a  man 
I  could  name.  Real  grief  comes  from  a  source  too 
deep  to  be  reached  by  reason :  the  only  chance  is  to  let 
the  heart  send  out  some  other  spring  from  the  same 
reservoir,  which  may  take  a  different  turn.  Sorrow 
;nay  be  diverted  into  other  channels ;  if  not,  it  finally 
sinks  inwards  and  wears  into  the  soil,  and  wastes  and 
consumes  it  until  all  is  over:  and  that  is  the  simple 
process  of  a  broken  heart,  which  is  never  battered  in 
breach,  but  always  destroyed  by  sap.  But  this  is  a  rare 
occurrence,  and  I  have  no  reason  to  suspect  that  my 
Savoyard  became,  an  example  of  it  in  this  instance. 

After  some  further  short  conversation,  the  result  of 


THE    SLEEPING    PARTNERS.  255 

which  is  neither  here  nor  there,  I  left  him,  in  a  not 
more  comfortless  state  than  I  found  him  ;  and,  as  chance 
would  have  it,  I,  within  an  hour  after,  turned  my  steps 
towards  the  irregular  rising  grounds  fronting  the  Prince 
of  Orange's  palace,  outside  the  Boulevards,  beyond  the 
low  brick  wall  which  is  meant  as  a  protection  against, 
but  is  in  reality  a  temptation  to,  contraband.  There 
was  a  hard  path  beaten  on  the  snow  between  the 
Louvain  and  Namur  gates,  winding  through  rugged 
ravines  and  inequalities  of  surface,  hiils  and  hollows,  so 
monotonously  intricate  from  their  snowy  covering,  that 
a  stranger  might  easily  enough  have  lost  his  way, 
during  a  night-wandering  at  least.  I  stepped  on  at  a 
rapid  pace,  the  crisp  air  powdering  my  whiskers  and 
side-locks,  and  my  breath  condensed  into  a  flake  of 
white  mist  as  it  escaped  from  my  lungs,  looking  as 
though  I  sent  forth  a  vapoury  flag  of  truce — for  I  was 
at  peace  with  all  the  world. 

I,  however,  had  not  yet  quite  shaken  ofl^  some  angry 
remains  of  my  discontent  with  fate,  which  had  treated 
the  Savoyard  boy  so  badly.  I  thought  his  case  a  hard 
one ;  and  had  more  than  once  asked  myself  why  or 
wherefore  a  poor  devil  hke  that,  or  the  abounding 
millions  of  other  poor  devils,  should  liave  their  path 
paved  with  sharp  flints  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave  ? 
But,  getting  no  satisfactory  answer  to  these  ready- 
springing  inquiries,  I  had  shaken  my  head  some  four 
21* 


366  friendship's   offering. 

or  five  times,  as  much  as  to  say,  It's  no  use — we  may- 
knock  at  the^  door  of  knowledge  again  and  again,  and 
not  find  it  at  hotne — '<  Whatever  is,  is" — and  there  let 
us  stop  the  quotation :  even  if  we  can't  believe  it  the 
"  best,"  let  us  at  any  rate  make  the  best  of  it.  It  is  in 
this  way  I  generally  pacify  myself,  when  there  is 
nothing  to  be  got  by  making  war.  There  is  no  disgrace 
in  knocking  under  to  destiny,  provided  one  is  sure  it 
is  not  of  one's  own  making.  But  when  it  is,  it  is  the 
bounden  duty  of  a  brave  spirit  to  battle  with  the  ills  he 
has  himself  created ;  and,  if  he  cannot  otherwise  destroy 
the  offspring  of  his  "minority  of  sense  and  majority  of 
folly,"  (as  a  quaint  writer  expresses  it,)  why  then  he 
must  follow  old  Saturn's  example,  and  swallow  them. 

Just  as  I  ascended  from  the  deepest  part  of  the  ravine 
and  the  reverie,  and  gained  the  upper  ridge,  I  was 
startled  at  hearing  a  few  bars  of  the  melody  of  "  Sweet 
home,"  irregularly  grinded  out  of  one  of  those  miserable 
music-mills  which  are  exclusively  the  badge  of  the 
Savoyards.  The  tones  were  quite  familiar  to  me,  as 
well  as  the  tune  they  tortured.  I  had  often  heard  them 
from  the  instrument  worked  by  the  comrade  of  the  boy 
I  have  been  saying  so  much  about,  and  I  thought  it  an 
odd  coincidence  that  I  should  stumble  thus  on  those 
two  poor  fellows  in  the  same  morning,  one  in  town  and 
the  other  out  of  it,  and  for  the  first  4ime  I  had  ever  seen 
them  separate.   I  stopped  for  a  moment  to  catch  exactly 


THE    SLEEPING    PARTNERS.  257 

the  direction  from  which  the  music,  so  to  call  it,  pro- 
ceeded ;  hut  it  had  stopped  also.  In  a  minute  or  two, 
it  came  again,  but  in  irregular  fits,  short,  quick,  and 
broken,  as  if  the  instrument  was  out  of  temper  as  well 
as  out  of  tune,  and  dissatisfied  with  its  own  discords. 
The  beautiful  air,  thus  murdered,  was  never  so  well 
adapted  to  carry  the  mind  back  to  the  memory  of  early 
associations.  The  bleak  scene,  the  foreign  land,  the 
gulf  between  the  past  and  present,  the  shifting  changes 
of  Hfe,  the  withered  hopes,  the  faded  friendships,  the 
altered  hearts!  "Well,  well,"  thought  I,  hurrying 
upwards  with  my  longest  strides,  "it  is  all  nonsense — 
a  dream,  a  farce  !  The  past  is  dead,  the  future  unborn 
— let  me  enjoy  the  present ;  it  is  full  blown,  ripe,  and 
fragrant.  When  to-morrow  grows  into  to-day,  it  shall 
have  all  my  allegiance  ;  when  it  fades  into  yesterday,  I 
will  forget  it-^if  I  can.  That  is  my  philosophy  !  But 
where  is  tha  musician  ?" 

Turning  round,  my  eye  fell  upon  the;  object  it  sought ; 
he  was  lying  against  the  bank  at  some  yards  from  me, 
on  his  back,  his  open  eyes  turned  up  to  the  keen  blue 
sky,  his  bosom  unbuttoned,  his  arms  stretched  beside 
him.  "  Thinking !"  thought  I,  "  and  of  home,  perhaps, 
such  as  it  was — no  matter — <  be  it  ever  so  homely  :'  " 
the  last  two  bars  of  the  melody  finished  the  quotation, 
but  played  so  wildly  out  of  measure,  that,  in  conjunction 
with  the  motionless  figure  of  the  boy,  it  sounded  quite 


258  friendship's   offering. 

unearthly.  I  looked  again — it  was  the  monkey  that 
turned  the  handle  of  the  "  hurdy-gurdy,"  (which  was 
close  beside  the  boy's  head)  with  one  hand,  while  with 
the  other  he  was  pulHng  the  collar  of  his  master's  coat, 
or  playing  with  his  long  hair,  I  could  not  distinguish 
which  exactly. 

"  What,"  said  I,  <'  sleeping,  like  the  hare,  with  his 
eyes  open  !  Is  he  afraid  of  the  hunters  even  here  ?" 
and  I  stepped  up  close  and  gazed  upon  him.  There 
was  no  fear  of  my  awaking  him—- he  was  stark  dead  ! 

Caught  in  the  too  close  embrace  of  the  frost,  the  poor 
wanderer  had  perished— -perhaps  a  shelter  had  been 
refused  him  for  the  night.  He  had  a  narrow  walk 
through  life,  but  ample  room  to  die  in.  He  was  stiff 
when  I  discovered  him,  as  the  bank  he  lay  on,  and 
must  have  been  dead  many  hours ;  but  even  then  his 
face,  except  for  its  paleness,  looked  scarce  like  death. 
Either  he  suffered  httle,  or  the  pang  was  like  a  light- 
ning flash :  it  must  have  struck  on  his  heart  at  once, 
and  not  approached  it  by  the  extremities.  The  monkey 
might  well  have  beheved  him  to  sleep,  and  imagine  the 
notes  of  his  music  box  had  power  to  rouse  him. 

The  Savoyard  was  buried  with  all  the  honours  of 
the  poor-house — they  are  not  very  noisy  or  exciting. 
Vagrancy  has  no  right  to  be  fired  over ;  nor  do  drums 
and  tnmipets  flourish  for  the  departed  poor.  Charity 
is  in  these  cases  very  taciturn :  in  truth  it  has  not  much 


THE    SLEEPING    PARTNERS,  259 

to  boast  of.  A  shell,  a  sexton,  a  short  prayer  or  two, 
and  a  few  shovelfuls  of  earth— all  that  is  scarcely  worth 
boasting  about,  or  writing  about  either — so  I  leave  the 
funeral  to  the  reader's  imagination. 

I  took  care  that  the  other  poor  fellow  duly  enjoyed 
his  lawful  inheritance — some  three  or  four  francs  in 
a  leathern  bag,  the  coarse  suit  of  clothes,  the  hurdy- 
gurdy,  and  the  Uving  monkey.  The  fourfold  association 
was  broken  up;  only  two  of  the  firm  remained;  and 
they  proceeded^  heaven  knows  where,  to  carrj'-  on  the 
business,  while  the  remaining  partners  slept. 

The  corporation  legislators  had  broken  dreams,  per- 
haps, when  they  heard  the  story. 


FROM     LAMARTINE. 

BY  B.  H.  COATES,  M.  D. 

'Tis  thee  I  see,  *tis  thee  I  hear 

In  deserts  or  in  clouds  of  air. 
The  wave  reflects  thy  image  dear ; 

Thy  gentle  voice  the  zephyrs  hear. 

When  slumhers  earth,  and  others  know 
The  solemn  night  wind's  mystic  tone, 

I  hear  thee  whisper,  soft  and  low, 
Some  holy  words  for  me  alone. 

If  on  the  fires  of  heav'n  I  gaze 

That  sparkle  o'er  the  veil  of  m'ght, 

I  see  thy  beauty  in  the  rays 

That  make  each  fav'rite  star  more  bright. 

And  when  the  zephyr,  o'er  the  rose. 
Flings  sweetness  from  the  gentle  tree, 

In  what  his  balmiest  hours  disclose. 
He  ever  wafts  the  breath  of  thee. 


E  :i  [1.  X,  „ 


• 


'# 

m 


LEILA. 


BY   JULIAN    CRAMER. 


« *  Say  to  him  my  spirit  is  often  with  hira — around  him — breath- 
ing its  ardent  desires  for  his  happiness.'  *  *  »  When  the  letter 
conveying  these  words  reached  me,  amid  the  anguish  of  my 
bereavement,  I  felt  that  I  had  received  a  message  from  my  dead 
Leila  in  the  land  of  spirits." 

Oh  thou,  whose  loving  face  I  see 

No  more,  except  in  dreams  at  night, 
I  heed  thy  message — it  shall  be 

In  all  my  woes  a  sure  dehght. 
Though  parted  by  a  stern  decree 

That  leaves  me  on  a  desert  shore. 
Our  souls,  from  every  fetter  free. 

Shall  meet  and  mingle  evermore. 

Yes,  thou  art  near  me.     On  my  brow 

The  whitening  locks  move  to  and  fro : 
There  is  no  zephyr  blowing  now 

To  stir  them — 'tis  thy  breath,  I  know ! 
Thy  spirit  lips  are  hovering  nigh — 

Oh  could  mine  meet  them  as  of  yore ! 
Was  that  the  echo  of  my  sigh? 

I  knew  not  that  I  sighed  before. 


264  friendship's   offering. 

Yes,  thou  art  near  me :  round  me  dwells 

An  atmosphere  so  sweet  and  pure, 
It  fills  my  heart's  most  secret  cells. 

And  is  for  care  the  perfect  cure. 
Can  I  forget  thee?     Deep  within, 

Where  memory  paints  with  fadeless  hues, 
Supreme  thine  image  e'er  hath  been, 

And  all  my  inner  hfe  imbues. 

Few  are  the  joys  that  light  my  way 

Along  the  dusty  road  of  hfe  : 
Earth's  brightest  scenes  are  cold  and  grey — 

I  languish  in  perpetual  strife. 
Sorrow  hath  made  me  from  my  birth 

The  target  for  her  poisoned  spears. 
And  every  hour  of  careless  mirth 

Hath  heralded  an  hour  of  tears ! 

But,  when  my  spirit  sinks  in  gloom. 

And  blackness  gathers  o'er  my  soul — 
When  gapes  beneath  the  open  tomb, 

And  mournful  bells  within  me  toll — 
Then  thou — my  loved  and  lost — shalt  press 

Thy  spiritual  Hps  to  mine: — 
Unseen,  unheard,  thy  sweet  caress 

Shall  fill  me  with  a  peace  divine. 


MEMORIES   OF    *'THE    SECOND    SIGHT." 

BY    R.    SHELTON    MACKENZIE,    LL.D. 

The  wanderer  through  a  gay  parterre, — rich  with 
a  thousand  beautiful  flowers,  indigenous  to  foreign 
dimes,  and  only  naturalized  in  this  by  the  exercise  of 
skill  and  the  outlay  of  expense, — delights  to  see  some 
homely,  simple  plant,  such  as  the  Httle  daisy  or  the 
pale  primrose,  which  charms  him  amid  the  brilliant 
array ;  and  does  so  charm  because  of  that  very  home- 
liness and  simphcity.  Let  us  consider  the  ornate  and 
splendid  volume  for  which  I  write — rich  with  its  fan- 
ciful Song  and  its  picturesque  Story — as  somewhat 
resembling  the  garden  ;  imagine  the  reader  to  be  the 
wanderer  through  its  beauties,  and  hope  that  if  I  bring 
a  blossom  or  two  of  Fact  before  him,  amid  all  the  bril- 
liant Fiction  he  may  there  encounter,  he  will  not  reject 
the  offering,  which  in  its  own  place  would  be  unheeded, 
but  view  it  with  somewhat  of  favour  on  account  of  its 
very  homeliness.  With  this  supposition — as  much  an 
22 


266 


apology  as  a  preface — I  venture  to  relate  a  few  modem 
instances  of  that  Second-sight  which  is  a  superstition 
not  only  apparently  peculiar  to  the  Scottish  Highlanders, 
but  limited  to  a  few  famihes  here. 

A  few  years  ago,  in  the  Scottish  Highlands,  the 
chapter  of  accidents  threw  me  into  chance  companion- 
ship with  a  gentleman,  in  whose  society  a  wet  evening 
passed  on,  pleasantly  and  rapidly,  with  conversation 
upon  almost  every  subject,  and,  at  length,  naturally 
turned  to  "the  Second-sight,"  which  even  yet  is 
claimed  for  a  few  Scottish  families — those  of  indis- 
putable Celtic  descent.  It  was  not  until  he  saw  that 
I  possessed  some  hereditary  respect  for  the  superstition 
in  question,  that  I  could  get  my  companion  to  discuss 
it  with  the  freedom  which  had  characterized  our  pre- 
vious discourse  upon  other  topics. 

"In  my  own  family,"  said  he,  "  Hhe  Second-sight' 
has  been  held  from  time  immemorieil.  In  other  Scottish 
famihes — that  is,  in  the  few  which  also  possess  this 
prophetic  vision,  the  gift  has  descended  from  father  to 
son :  in  ours,  from  a  circumstance  which  it  would  be 
tedious  to  relate,  it  has  been  delivered  from  grandfather 
to  grandson,  there  being  a  lapse  between  its  exercise 
by  the  respective  parties.  Thus,  supposing  that  your 
grandfather  possessed  this  gift,  it  would  not  descend  to 
you  during  the  hfe  of  your  father,  though  he  would  be 
wholly  out  of  the  line  of  succession.     I  could  tell  you 


MEMORIES    OF    "THE    SECOND    SIGHT."  267 

an  anecdote  or  two  which  would  shew  you  how,  in  my 
own  house,  this  has  been  the  case. 

"My  grandfather,  who  resided  near  CuUoden  Moor, 
had  taken  a  wife  shortly  before  the  Jacobite  out-break 
in  1745.  On  the  morning  before  the  battle,  he  sat 
down  to  breakfast  with  such  a  grave  countenance,  that 
his  bride  was  induced  to  inquire  what  had  happened 
to  gloom  it.  He  attempted  to  evade  the  inquiry  which 
her  womanly  curiosity  or  her  bridal  affection  made, 
but  confessed  at  length,  that  he  had  seen  the  shadow 
of  coming  evil — that,  in  short,  he  had  beheld,  by  anti- 
cipation, a  bloody  fight,  and  the  downfall  of  the  Cheva- 
lier's cause.  I  should  tell  you  that  my  grandfather 
was  an  adherent  of  the  Stuarts,  and  the  head  of  our 
clan  had  forfeited  an  Earldom  and  estate,  and  had 
narrowly  escaped  with  life,  on  account  of  his  active 
participation  in  the  rebellion  of  1715.  <But,'  he  added, 
*I  saw  also,  my  Isabella,  that  we  shall  this  evening 
receive  a  gallant  and  royal  leader  under  our  roof.  .  It 
can  be  no  other  than  the  Prince,  and  it  behoves  you  to 
make  the  best  preparation  for  him.'  In  Scotland,  at 
that  time,  the  wife's  motto  was  to  hear  and  to  obey, 
and  she  who  was  thus  spoken  to,  hastened  to  put  her 
house  in  order  and  make  it  ready  for  the  reception  of 
the  visioned  guest.  A  few  minutes  before  midnight, 
the  tramp  of  cavalry  was  heard  approaching.  It  came 
nearer — nearer.     It  paused  at  my  grandfather's  gate. 


268.  friendship's   offering. 

A  loud  knocking  summoned  the  inmates,  and  they 
received  a  royal  leader,  as  had  been  anticipated,  but 
not  exactly  him  whom  they  had  expected.  Instead  of 
bonny  Prince  Charley,  it  was  the  burly  Duke  of  Cum- 
berland!" 

*  ^  That,' '  said  I,  *  <  was  somewhat  of  a  disappointment?" 
"It  was.  The  Duke  sat  up  during  the  greater  part 
of  the  night,  and  snatched  an  hour's  sleep  on  the  bed, 
without  taking  off  his  clothes.  He  quitted  the  house 
at  day-break,  and  asked  the  loan  of  a  snuff-box,  as  he 
went  away.  The  worst  in  the  place,  namely,  a  com- 
mon Scotch  mull,  was  handed  him — for,  sooth  to  say, 
independent  of  my  grandfather's  sympathies  being 
with  the  Stuarts,  he  never  expected  to  see  his  box 
again.  Two  or  three  days  after  the  battle,  however,  a 
soldier  rode  up  to  the  house,  inquired  for  its  occupant 
by  name,  and  restored  him  the  mull  <with  the  Duke's 
compHments  and  thanks.*  That  evening,  when  it  was 
accidentally  opened,  it  was  found  to  be  filled  with  gold. 
In  this  manner  had  the  Duke  chosen  to  make  his 
acknowledgment  for  the  night's  lodging  which  had 
been  unwillingly  afforded  him.  The  box,  thus  honoured 
by  having  been  in  the  Duke  of  Cumberland's  pocket 
during  the  eventful  day  of  Culloden,  was  long  preserved 
in  our  family,  as  a  sort  of  heir-loom,  and  if  you  have 
the  slightest  curiosity,  y6u  can  see  it  now." 

In  compHance  with  my  desire,  the  box  was  produced. 


MEMORIES    OF    "THE    SECOND    SIGHT."  2G9 

It  was  a  very  plain  mull,  without  the  slightest  orna- 
ment except  a  small  silver  shield  on  the  cover,  and  a 
shght  rim  of  the  same  material  round  the  top. 

*^I  keep  it,"  said  its  owner,  <<  precisely  as  it  was 
dehvered  to  me — the  only  portion  of  my  father's  pro- 
perty that  ever  came  into  my  possession  on  his  death. 
Not  having  the  smaller  vices  of  smoking  or  snuffing— 
indeed,  having  as  much  antipathy  for  *the  weed'  as 
ever  King  James  had, — I  yet  keep  the  box,  as  a  me- 
morial, rather  of  its  last  than  its  original  possessor," 

"Did  he  see  any  more  visions?" 

< '  Certainly.  Having  made  so  promising  a  commence- 
ment in  '45,  he  constantly  exercised  the  faculty.  The 
last  occasion,  which  was  exactly  half  a  century  after — 
for  he  lived  to  extreme  old  age-— was  one  which  such 
of  his  descendants  as  heard  the  incident  were  not  likely 
to  forget.  My  father,  being,  like  Horatio,  of  *  a  truant 
disposition,'  took  French  leave  of  his  birth-place  when 
he  had  scarcely  reached  his  eighteenth  year.  The  fol- 
lowing fifteen  years  witnessed  his  wanderings  through 
all  quarters  of  the  globe,  and  during  all  that  time,  most 
undutifuUy,  he  did  not  attempt  to  hold  any  communi- 
cation with  his  family  by  letter.  It  was  generally 
beHeved  by  his  kinsmen  that  he  was  dead  ;  but  his 
father  declared  that  he  felt  to  the  contrary,  and  his 
mother  clung  to  the  belief  with  the  trust  that  maternal 
feelings  alone  can  retain — hers  was  that  hoping  against 
22* 


270  friendship's    offering. 

hope,  which  believes  what  it  wishes  rather  than  what 
circumstances  might  make  it  fear.  At  last,  when, 
except  by  his  parents,  his  very  memory  was  almost 
forgotten,  the  long  absent  reappeared  in  the  scenes  of 
his  youth.  The  manner  in  which  he  was  received,  as 
I  have  heard  him  relate  it,  was  inexpressibly  striking. 
The  father,  white  with  the  snow,  and  bowed  by  the  ail- 
ments of  upwards  of  eighty  years,  had  maintained  most 
of  his  mental  faculties  unimpaired,  and  was  cherished 
•^amid  his  children  and  his  children's  children — as  a 
venerable  patriarch,  a  living  link  between  the  past  and 
the  present.  On  the  thirty-third  anniversary  of  the 
birth-day  of  the  absent  son — which  they  celebrated, 
rather  from  custom  than  a  behef  in  his  continued  exist- 
ence— the  old  man  suddenly  exclaimed,  fixing  his  eyes 
intently  upon  the  open  window,  ^I  see  the  return  of 
the  absent :  to-night,  even  to-night,  his  voice  will  sound 
in  the  house  where  he  first  drew  breath  !'  Not  a  word 
more  did  he  speak,  but  his  wife,  who  had  the  fullest 
confidence  in  his  <  second-sight,'  decreed  that  prepara- 
tions should  be  made  for  the  reception  of  a  guest.  The 
day  had  far  declined,  and  no  visitant  appeared.  The 
younger  members  of  the  fEimily  smiled,  in  scepticism, 
at  the  non-fulfilment  of  their  grandsire's  prediction. 
At  last,  when  it  now  was  almost  midnight,  a  step  was 
heard  outside.  The  window  had  been  left  open,  and 
through  it,  though  rather  an  unusual  mode  of  entrance, 


MEMORIES    OF    *'THE    SECOND    SIGHT."  271 

bounded  in  the  robust  man,  bronzed  with  foreign  travel, 
who  had  left  the  pkce  when  a  lad.  No  one  recognized 
him,  except  his  aged  parents.  He  bent  on  his  knee 
before  his  father  for  a  blessing,  and  the  old  man,  laying 
his  hands  upon  the  head  of  the  long  absent,  fervently 
said,  ^Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in 
peace.'  Some  hours  were  spent  in  questions  and  an- 
swers, and,  rather  early  in  the  morning,  the  happy 
family  retired  to  rest.  When  they  arose  and  assembled 
round  the  breakfast-table,  it  was  noticed  that  my  grand- 
father's seat  was  vacant.  One  of  his  daughters  went 
to  summon  him.  Why  need  I  prolong  my  story  ?  She 
found  him  dead,  and  his  wife  sleeping  by  his  side  in 
happy  unconsciousness  of  her  loss!  If  ever  a  heart 
had  broken  with  joy  it  was  that  old  man's.  Was  I 
wrong  in  saying  that  there  was  something  striking  in 
the  wanderer's  return  to  his  native  hills  ?" 

My  companion  did  not  much  hesitate,  at  my  urgent 
request,  to  relate  the  instances  in  which,  in  his  own 
person,  the  faculty  of  ^'second-sight"  had  been  mani- 
fested. They  were  related  with  such  an  apparent  faith 
in  their  reality, — and  it  should  be  remembered  that  the 
narrator  was  now  drawing  upon  his  own  painful  experi- 
ence, in  which  there  was  scarcely  chance  of  a  mistake- 
that  Doubt  itself  would  be  almost  silenced  if,  even  as  I 
did,  it  heard  the  story  told  so  much  more  impressively 
than  I  can  pretend  to  write. 


272  friendship's    offering. 

.  "  According  to  what  .is  understood  to  be  the  usual 
custom,"  said  he,  "the  faculty  of  which  I  spoke  de- 
scends from  grandsire  to  grandson,  passing  over  the 
entire  intermediate  descendants.  None  of  my  grand- 
father's sons,  therefore,  could  expect  to  be  endowed 
with  it,  and  of  his  many  grandsons,  there  appeared 
little  chance  that  I — ^bom,  too,  out  of  Scotland,  and 
from  a  Saxon  mother — should  inherit  it.  Least  of  all, 
at  any  rate,  did  such  an  idea  cross  my  own  mind  for  a 
moment.  I  was  in  my  fourteenth  year,  and  had  pro- 
ceeded to  spend  my  school-vacation  with  a  relative  in 
the  country.  My  father,  when  I  left  him,  was  in  the 
enjoyment  of  that  rude  health  which  always  distin- 
guished him,  and  made  him,  then,  though  in  his  sixtieth 
year,  a  much  stronger  man  than  many  who  were  his 
juniors  by  ten  or  fifteen  years.  A  few  weeks  passed 
pleasantly  on,  and  all  accounts  from  home  were  satis- 
factory. I  well  remember,  that  one  morning,  I  hap- 
pened to  sit  alone — if  I  can  say  I  was  alone,  with  one 
of  Scott's  novels  in  my  hand — when,  happening  to  raise 
my  eyes  towards  the  fire-place,  over  which  was  placed 
a  large  mirror,  I  saw  my  father  standing  by  it,  with 
his  arm  resting  on  the  chimney-piece.  My  first  impulse 
w^as  to  jump  from  my  chair,  throw  aside  my  book,  and 
hastily  advance  to  my  father.  He  did  not  stir,  and  his 
eyes,  as  they  looked  at  another  object,  appeared  dull 
and  glassy.     I  had  scarcely  taken  a  second  step  for- 


273 


ward,  when  I  noticed  that  I  could  see  into  the  mirror, 
through  my  father,  and  that  he  cast  no  shadow  upon 
the  glass.  Instantly  the  thought  rushed  into  my  mind 
that  in  this  there  was  something  unnatural.  My  ad- 
vancing steps  were  suddenly  arrested,  and  a  horror 
struck  through  my  frame.  I  remember  nothing  more, 
except  that,  late  in  the  day,  I  found  myself  in  bed,  and 
was  told  by  one  of  my  cousins  that  I  had  been  taken 
with  a  fit  of  some  kind,  for  I  had  been  found  senseless 
on  the  floor,  and  that  the  medical  gentleman  who  had 
seen  me,  had  bled  me.  I  could  not  resist  the  impulse, 
even  at  the  risk  of  being  laughed  at,  to  whisper  to  my 
gentle  cousin  the  cause  of  my  sudden  illness.  On  the 
third  day  after,  a  letter  from  home  told  me  that,  at  the 
precise  time  I  saw  what  I  behe  ved  was  my  father  he  had 
died.  He  had  been  visited  by  a  sudden  ailment,  which 
rapidly  terminated  in  his  death.  Why  this  should  have 
occurred— for  it  did  occur,  as  certainly  as  I  am  now 
telling  it  to  you — I  am  unable  to  explain.  I  only  relate 
a  simple  fact,  which  neither  time,  change,  nor  circum- 
stance can  obliterate  from  my  memory." 

After  a  silence  of  some  duration — for  there  was  sub- 
ject for  meditation  in  what  I  had  heard — I  ventured  to 
ask,  on  what  other  occasion  he  had  experienced  the 
faculty  ? 

"  The  second  and  only  other  instance  occurred," 
said  he,  "about  fifteen  years  ago,  when  I  was  in  my 


274  friendship's   off^iring. 

twenty-second  yeaj.  I  cannot  account  for  the  impulse 
which  has  prompted  me  to  converse,  thus  freely,  with 
a  stranger,  upon  a  subject  of  this  kind,  but  I  feel  that 
you  do  not  laugh  at  what  I  tell'  you,  and,  at  times,  the 
overloaded  mind  is  glad  to  have  an  auditor  respecting 
the  superstition— if  such  it  be — even  if  he  does  not 
share  its  peculiar  shades  of  speculation,  to  whom  it 
may  unburthen  itself  without  reserve.  When  I  had 
reached  my  eighteenth  year — that  age  when  the  Girl 
has  already  softly  glided  into  the  Woman,  and  the  Boy 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  attained  Manhood — when, 
in  short,  he  yearns,  most  sinlessly,  for  the  soft  com- 
panionship which  soothes,  and  softens,  and  refines  his 
nature — -it  was  my  fortune  to  be  thrown  a  good  deal 
into  the  society  of  the  gentle  cousin  I  have  already 
mentioned,  who  was  about  my  own  age.  I  need  not 
fatigue  you  with  a  description  of  the  lady.  Beautiful 
she  certainly  was — ^at  least  so  /  thought, — ^but  the  cha- 
racter of  her  loveliness  I  feel  that  words  could  never 
correctly  make  known  to  you.  But,  indeed,  the  mere 
attractions  of  form  and  feature  would  not  by  themselves 
have  charmed  me.  I  found  that  my  cousin  had  a  well- 
informed  intellect,  and  I  have  ever  thought  that  it  is 
the  mind  which  makes  the  body  beautiful.  In  the 
strange  old  country-house  which  was  her  dwelling- 
place,  and  with  no  other  being  ef  either  sex  of  an  age 
at  all  near  my  own,  it  is  scarcely  wonderful — to  say 


275 


nothing  whatever  of  the  lady's  charms — if  I  very 
speedily  became  enamoured  of  her.  Nor  was  it  a  tri- 
fling consolation  to  know  that  the  fancy  or  the  passion 
(for  the  true  designation  of  the  feeling  is  doubtful,)  was 
as  reciprocal  as  heart  could  desire.  Well  do  I  remem- 
ber, even  as  it  were  yesterday,  when  first  I  dared  say 
in  words  what  my  eyes  had  told  long  before,  how 
dearly  I  loved  her.  And  her  reply — it  was  given,  not 
in  spoken  language,  but  in  the  low  and  reheving  sigh 
which  speaks,  even  in  its  silence.  The  blush  upon 
the  cheek, — the  heaving  of  her  bosom, — the  sudden 
tears  springing  into  her  dark  blue  eyes,  (like  the  dew 
trembHng  on  the  violets,)  gave  me  the  assurance  that  I 
did  not  sue  in  vain.  Even  yet,  though  years  have 
passed  away,  the  memory  of  that  first  hour  of  mutu- 
ally confessed  affection  is  green  in  my  heart.  Well, 
it  is  some  consolation,  that  though  Hope  may  fly  away, 
Memory  remains  to  solace  us,  however  sadly ! 

"  It  would  be  a  bad  reward  for  the  patience  with 
which,  my  dear  sir,  you  have  hstened  to  all  this  ego- 
tism, to  try  it  further  by  inflicting  upon  you  an  account 
of  all  the  tenderness  of  protestation  and  promise  which 
followed  the  mutual  confession  I  spoke  of.  The  truth 
is,  we  were  thrown  much  together,  when  we  had  no- 
thing to  do  but  fall  in  love  with  each  other,  at  the  most 
susceptible  period  of  the  threescore  and  ten  years 
allotted  to  human  Hfe,  and  we  certainly  fulfilled  our 


27C 


destiny.  Vows  of  eternal  constancy  we  exchanged,  of 
course,  and  wisely  agreed  that  at  a  fit  and  future  time, 
we  should  be  espoused,  and  so — we  parted.  My  lot 
was  speedily  cast  in  the  midst  of  the  business  and 
bustle  of  the  world,  in  which  I  had  to  win  subsistence 
and  reputation ;  and  hers  was  destined  to  ghde  on  in 
quiet,  first  in  that  home  which  to  this  hour  is  so  haunt- 
ed with  recollections  of  the  past,  that  it  would  be  a 
positive  pain  for  me  to  revisit  it,  and  finally  in  a  se- 
questered village  in  the  most  beautiful  part  of  the  South 
of  France.  Our  correspondence  gradually  grew  less 
frequent  than  it  had  been  at  first ;  for  my  own  part,  I 
must  admit  in  candour,  that  at  last,  when  I  formed  new 
ties,  it  wholly  ceased. 

«I  remember  how — for  our  converse  was*  beyond 
our  years — we  had  spoken  together  of  that  world  be- 
yond the  grave,  of  which  so  little  is  known,  so  much 
idly  guessed.  « I  believe,'  said  my  cousin,  who-  was 
fond  of  such  speculations,  « that  disembodied  spirits 
may  hover  around  those  whom  they  loved  on  earth, 
and,'  she  added,  with  more  solemnity  than  I  fancied 
the  occasion  warranted,  *if  it  should  be  so,  depend 
upon  it  that  I  shall  first  use  my  privilege  to  watch  over 
you,  and — if  it  be  permitted — even  be  a  visitant  visible 
to  you.'  I  had  smiled  at  the  promise  thus  made,  half 
in  sport;  I  dreamed  not  then  how  Truth  may  lurk 
amid  the  smiles  of  mirth. 


MEMORIES    OF    "THE    SECOND    SIGHT."  277 

"Many  years  had  past  since  I  had  last  seen  my 
cousin.  The  sanguine  youth  had  changed  into  the 
man  of  the  world,  striving  to  gain  that  fame  which, 
when  gained,  is  unsubstantial  as  the  gorgeous  domes 
which  fancy  images  in  the  sky  on  the  eve  of  an  autum- 
nal day.  I  had  <  olive  branches  round  about  my  table.' 
I  had  taken  an  active  and  leading  part  in  the  strife  of 
politics  and  the  business  of  Hfe.  I  was  one  of  the  last 
persons,  in  short,  whom  any  one  would  think  likely  to 
be  moved,  even  for  a  moment,  by  a  superstitious  fancy. 
One  night,  when  absent  from  my  home  on  a  visit  to  a 
friend,  I  retired  to  bed  early,  and  lay  in  that  pleasant, 
quiet  state  between  repose  and  thought.  Contempla- 
tion, which  had  been  busy,  was  momentarily  fading, 
but  Sleep  had  not  yet  put  his  seal  upon  the  phantasies. 
As  the  clock  commenced  striking  the  midnight  hour,  I 
heard,  or  thought  I  heard,  the  door  of  my  chamber 
slowly  opened,  and  footsteps — they  seemed  a  woman's 
by  their  light  tread — pace  stealthily  along.  They 
came  near — yet  nearer.  They  reached  the  side  of  my 
bed,  and  paused.  A  Hght  dimly  appeared  through  the 
curtains,  as  if  some  one  cautiously  held  a  lamp,  half 
veiling  its  light  so  as  to  allow  a  glance  at  me  without 
dazzling  me.  The  curtains  slowly  opened  and — and, 
by  heaven !  for  it  was  not  a  dream — I  saw  a  woman's 
face,  pale,  melancholy,  and  indistinct,  gazing  into  mine 
with  intent  and  mournful  look.     Of  the  lineaments  of 


S78  friendship's   offering. 

that  face,  which  yet  appeared  not  wholly  unknown  to 
me,  I  could  gather  little  precisely  in  the  brief  glance  I 
had  of  them — for  as  I  have  said,  they  were  indistinct. 
But  the  eyes — so  lustrous  and  so  sorrowful — these  I 
could  distinctly  see  :  these  were  what  I  remembered, 
but  knew  not  how,  where,  or  what  was  my  knowledge 
of  them.  I  started  from  my  stillness— spoke,  to  satisfy 
myself  that  I  was  not  in  sleep — looked  around  to  see 
whether  the  light  shining  over  me  might  not  be  that  of 
the  moon  peering  in  through  the  casement ;  but  it  was 
a  dark  and  starless  night.  I  turned  to  the  vision — if 
it  were  such — ^but  as  I  was  about  speaking  to  it,  it 
slowly  vanished.  I  followed  it — ^but  in  vain.  As  it 
retired,  the  light  which  mantled  it  grew  less ;  but  the 
unearthly  lustre  of  those  dark  and  brilliant  eyes  re- 
mained the  latest  in  my  view.  Just  as  all  had  faded 
away,  the  clock  pealed  out  its  last  stroke,  and  that  clear 
sound  fell  on  my  ear  like  the  knell  for  a  departed  soul. 
A  shriek,  too,  more  piercingly  shrill  and  wildly  hor- 
rible than  I  had  ever  heard  before,  accompanied  the 
exit  of  the  shadowy  visitant.  All,  from  first  to  last, 
that  I  have  described,  had  happened  between  the  first 
and  the  last  stroke  of  the  midnight  hour.  An  age  of 
agony  was  concentrated  into  the  compass  of  that  mo- 
ment ! 

"When  the  morning  came,  I  found  my  door  fastened 
within,  precisely  as  I  had  left  it  when  I  retired  to  rest. 


MEMORIES    OF    "THE    SECOND    SIGHT."  279 

The  circumstance  appeared  so  startling,  that  I  made  a 
memorandum  that  day,  while  each  particular  was 
vividly  fresh  in  my  mind,  of  what  I  had  seen  or  imagi- 
ned. Why  need  I  longer  delay  the  result  ?  Within 
ten  days  I  received  a  letter  informing  me  that  my 
cousin,  who  had  long  been  separated  from  my  very 
thoughts,  had  died  in  the  foreign  land  where  she  had 
passed  so  many  years.  The  startling  coincidence  was 
that  the  breath  of  life  had  departed  from  her  on  the 
very  day  and  at  the  very  hour  when  those  dark  unfa- 
thomable eyes  met  mine,  as  I  have  told  you.  She  died 
suddenly,  and  by  no  Hngering  illness. — I  have  no  more 
to  tell." 

To  wonder  at  this  strange  relation,  and  to  repeat, 
with  Hamlet,  that  there  were  more  things  in  earth  and 
heaven  than  our  philosophy  had  dreamed  of,  was  only 
natural.  I  had  the  curiosity  to  inquire  what  the  nar- 
rator really  thought  of  the  visit  from  the  world  of  spirits, 
for  it  was  clear  that  such  he  conceived  it  to  be,  arid  the 
answer  was  "  I  doubt  not  that  it  was  her  departing 
spirit  which,  as  it  hovered  between  dust  and  immor- 
tahty,  thus  gave  its  latest  token  of  remembrance  to  him 
whom  it  had  loved  in  hfe  and  until  death — testifying, 
by  that  last  farewell,  the  truth  of  that  affection  which 
the  grave  alone  could  terminate." 


THE  NEGLECTED  CHILD. 

BY  THOMAS  H.  BAYLY,  ESQ. 

I  never  was  a  favourite — 

My  mothernever  smiled 
On  me,  with  half  the  tenderness 

That  blessed  her  fairer  child : 
I've  seen  her  kiss  my  sister's  cheek, 

While  fondled  on  her  knee  ; 
I've  turned  away  to  hide  my  tears, — 

There  was  n6  kiss  for  me  ! 

And  yet  I  strove  to  please,  with  all 

My  httle  store  of  sense  ; 
I  strove  to  please,  and  infancy 

Can  rarely  give  offence : 
But  when  my  artless  efforts  met 

A  cold,  ungentle  check, 
I  did  not  dare  to  throw  myself, 

In  tears,  upon  her  neck. 


THE     NEGLECTED     CHILD.  281 


How  blessed  are  the  beautiful ! 

Love  watches  o'er  their  birth  ; 
Oh  beauty !  in  my  nursery 

I  learned  to  know  thy  worth  ; — 
For  even  there,  I  often  felt 

Forsaken  and  forlorn ; 
And  wished — for  others  wished  it  tO' 

I  never  had  been  born ! 


Pm  sure  I  was  affectionate, — 

But  in  my  sister's  face, 
There  was  a  look  of  love  that  claimed 

A  smile  or  an  embrace. 
But  when  /  raised  my  lip,  tp  meet 

The  pressure  children  prize, 
None  knew  the  feehngs  of  my  heart, — 

They  spoke  not  in  my  eyes. 

But  oh !  that  heart  too  keenly  felt 

The  anguish  of  neglect ; 
I  saw  my  sister's  lovely  form 

With  gems  and  roses  decked  ; 
I  did  riot  covet  them  ;  but  oft, 
When  wantonly  reproved, 
envied  her  the  privilege 
Of  being  so  beloved. 
23* 


282  ^       friendship's    offering. 

But  soon  a  time  of  triumph  came — 

A  time  of  sorrow  too, — 
For  sickness,  o'er  my  sister's  form 

Her  venomed  mantle  threw ;: — 
The  features,  once  so  beautiful, 

Now  wore  the  hue  of  death  ; 
And  former  friends  shrank  fearfully 

From  her  infectious  breath. 

'Twas  then,  unwearied,  day  and  night 

I  watched  beside  her  bed,     . 
And  fearlessly  upon  my  breast 

I  pillowed  her  poor  head. 
She  lived ! — she  loved  me  for  my  care  !- 

My  grief  was  at  an  end ; 
I  was  a  lonely  being  once. 

But  now  I  have  a  friend  ! 


YOU  CAN'T  MARRY  YOUR  GRAND- 
MOTHER! 

BY    T.    HAYNES    BAYLY,    ESQ. 

The  most  wretched  of  children  is  the  spoiled  child — 
the  pet  who  is  under  no  subjection,  and  who  gets  all 
the  trash  for  which  his  little  mouth  waters.  'Tis  he 
who  bumps  his  head,  in  the  act  of  going  somewhere  he 
was  forbidden  by  papa  to  approach ;  and  'tis  he  whose 
little  stomach  aches  considerably  in  consequence  of  eat- 
ing too  many  sweet  things,  coaxed  out  of  the  cupboard 
of  a  fond  but  injudicious  mamma. 

Spoil  the  boy,  and  what  are  we  to  expect  of  the  man  ? 
Will  the  dog  be  well-behaved,  which  was  let  to  go  his 
own  way  when  a  puppy  ?  Will  the  steed  be  steady  in 
harness,  if,  when  a  colt,  no  care  was  taken  of  it  ?  The 
spoiled  boy  inevitably  becomes  the  wilful  man,  and  with 
the  wilfulness  comes  discontent. 

Unfortunately,  those  who  have  always  been  accus- 
tomed to  find  others  yield  to  them,  and  to  have  their 


284  friendship's   offering. 

own  way,  become  habitually  selfish,  and  utterly  regard- 
less of  the  feelings  and  wishes  of  those  about  them. 
Self-gratification  is  naturally  the  first  wish  of  the  child ; 
but  it  is  the  fault  of  parents,  if,  by  injudicious  indulgence, 
the  man  is  led  to  anticipate  that,  as  everybody  yielded 
to  him  in  boyhood,  everybody  must  yield  in  after  life. 

Frederick  Fairleigh  was  the  spoiled  qhild  of  his 
family,  the  youngest  of  three  children,  and  the  only  boy. 
He  was  the  pet  of  both  father  and  mother,  and  being 
lively,  inteUigent,  and  good-looking,  he  soon  became  a 
favourite.  Spoiled  in  infancy,  he  was  umnanageable 
in  boyhood,  and  wilful  and  self-suiRcient  in  the  early 
days  of  maturity.  Master  Frederick  having  been  used 
to  his  own  way,  it  was  not  likely  that  Mr.  Frederick 
would  voluntarily  relinquish  so  agreeable  a  privilege. 
At  college,  therefore,  he  continued  and  matured  the 
habit  of  idleness,  which  had  been  censured,  l^ut  never 
sufficiently  corrected  at  school. 

*'  As  for  study,  he  never  got  further  than  stud,"  and 
was  much  more  frequently  seen  in  a  scarlet  hunting-coat 
than  in  his  sombre  academic  costume.  The  idle  man  at 
Oxford  during  term  time  is  not  likely  to  do  much  good 
at  home  during  the  vacation.— Frederick  Fairleigh  did 
none.  Ere  he  ceased  to  be  in  years  a  boy,  he  became 
what  is  termed  a  "lady's  man,"  flirting  with  all  the 
pretty  girls  he  met,  and  encouraged  to  flirt  by  many  a 
•married  dame  old  enough  to  be  his  mother.  Petted  and 


YOU  can't  marry  your  grandmother.        285 

spoiled  by  everybody,  Frederick  became  the  especial 
favourite  of  his  grandfather,  Sir  Peter  Fairleigh,  and 
spent  much  more  of  his  time  at  Oakley  Park  than  at 
his  father's  house. 

Before  young  Fairleigh  was  one-and-twenty,  his 
father  died,  and  being  then  the  immediate  heir  to  Sir 
Peter's  baronetcy  and  estates,  he  naturally  became  a 
greater  favourite  than  ever.  One  precept  the  old 
gentleman  was  perpetually  preaching  to  his  grandson : 
he  advocated  an  early  marriage,  and  the  more  evidently 
the  youth  fluttered  butterfly  fashion,  from  flower  to 
flower,  enjoying  the  present  without  a  thought  of  the 
future,  the  more  strenuously  did  old  Sir  Peter  urge  the 
point. 

The  spoiled  child  had  no  notion  of  rehnquishing  old 
privileges :  he  still  had  his  own  way,  still  flirted  with 
all  the  pretty  girls  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  thinking 
only  of  himself,  and  the  enjoyment  of  the^noment,  never 
dreamt  of  the  pain  he  might  inflict  on  some,  who,  view- 
ing his  attentions  in  a  serious  light,  might  keenly  suflfer 
in  secret  when  they  saw  those  attentions  transferred  to 
another. 

He  was  five-and-twenty  when  he  first  met  Maria 
Denman,  the  richest  heiress  and  the  prettiest  girl  of  the 
country ;  and  when  the  Baronet  saw  the  handsome 
pair  rambhng  together  all  the  morning,  and  sitting 
together  in  corners  at  night,  he  secretly  exulted  in  the 


286  friendship's    offering, 

probable  realization  of  one  of  his  fondest  hopes — the 
union  of  his  pet  grandson  with  his  fair  favourite,  Maria. 
There  could  be  no  misunderstanding  his  attentions : 
there  was  indeed  a  tacit  understanding  between  the 
young  couple  ;  but  Frederick  Fairleigh  certainly  never 
had  in  so  many  words  distinctly  said,  "  Maria,  will  you 
marry  me  ?"  Months  flew  away,  two  years  had  already 
elapsed,  and  though  Frederick  certainly  seemed  attached 
to  Maria,  yet,  when  other  pretty  people  came  in  his 
way,  he  still  flirted  in  a  manner  not  quite  justifiable  in 
one  who  had  a  serious  attachment,  nay,  almost  an 
engagement,  elsewhere. 

Poor  Sir  Peter  did  not  manage  matters  well ;  indeed, 
with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  he  made  them 
worse.  It  was  not  hkely  that  one  who  had  never  been 
accustomed  to  opposition  should  all  at  once  obey  the 
dictation  of  a  grandfather.  Opposition  to  the  match 
would  immediately  have  brought  matters  to  the  desired 
point — for  Frederick,  though  not  quite  aware  of  it  him- 
self, devotedly  loved  the  fair  Maria.  But  she,  like  the 
rest  of  the  world,  had  assisted  to  spoil  him :  she  had 
been  too  accessible,  too  easily  won ;  and  really  loving 
him  who  had  paid  her  such  marked  attention,  Frederick 
had  never  seen  a  look  or  a  word  bestowed  upon  another 
which  could  give  him  the  slightest  uneasiness.  A  pang 
of  jealousy  would  probably  have  at  once  opened  his 
eyes  to  the  state  of  his  own  heart.     But  always  kindly 


YOU  can't  marry  your  grandmother.        287 

received  by  Maria,  and  always  happy  in  her  society, 
the  spoiled  child  saw  in  her  kindness,  and  in  her  smiles, 
nothing  beyond  the  voluntary  and  unsolicited  preference 
which  he  had  been  but  too  well  accustomed  to  receive 
from  others.  He  was,  therefore,  never  driven  by  doubt 
or  by  solicitude  to  pause  and  scrutinize  the  state  of  his 
own  heart. 

Instead  of  offering  feigned  opposition  to  the  match, 
however.  Sir  Peter  openly  opposed  the  hne  of  conduct 
pursued  by  his  volatile  heir,  and,  by  continually  harping 
on  the  subject,  he  at  last  really  made  the  wilful  young 
man  believe  that,  of  all  disagreeable  things  in  the  world, 
a  marriage  with  the  woman  who  was  really  dearest  to 
him  of  all  beings  on  earth,  would  be  the  very  worst. 

<'My  dear  Sir,"  he  cried  one  morning  at  breakfast, 
after  hearing  a  long  lecture  on  the  subject,  "how  you 
do  tease  me  about  Miss  Denman !" 

"Tease  you,  Fred,"  said  Sir  Peter,  "tease  you!  for 
shame  :  I  am  urging  you  to  secure  your  own  happi- 
ness." 

"  Surely,  Sir,"  he  replied,  "there  is  plenty  of  time,— . 
I  am  still  very  young." 

"Young  Sir! — you  are  a  boy,  Sir;  a  boy  in  judg- 
ment and  discretion  ;  a  very  child.  Sir ;  and,  and  what's 
worse,  a  spoiled  child." 

"Well,"  said  Frederick,  laughing,  "  don't  be  angry ; 
if  I  am  a  spoiled  child  the  fault  is  not  mine." 


5?0»  FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 

*'  Yes  it  is,  Fred — I  say  it  is;  things  that  are  really- 
good  of  their  kind  are  not  so  easily  spoiled." 

"Indeed!"  said  Frederick,  with  a  look  of  innocent 
surprise,  and,  taking  up  Sir  Peter's  gold  watch  which 
lay  upon  the  table,  he  opened  it,  and  pretended  to  poke 
about  the  wheels. 

"I  see  what  you  mean,  you  satirical  monkey,"  cried 
Sir  Peter,  laughing ;  "  give  me  my  watch.  Sir,  and  let 
me  now  tell  you  that  where  there  is  real  good  sense 
and  stabihty,  the  man  will  very  soon  learn  to  get  rid  of 
the  selfishness — yes,  Fred,  I  am  sorry  to  repeat  it, 
selfishness  was  my  word — the  selfishness  and  self-im- 
portance resulting  from  over  indulgence  in  childhood. 

"  I  wonder,  then,  any  one  should  care  about  a  selfish 
consequential  fellow,  like  myself,"  said  Frederick. 

"  You  mean  to  insinuate  that  you  have  been  and  are 
a  general  favourite,  popular  with  every  body,  and  well 
received  wherever  you  go  ?  I  grant  it,  my  dear  boy,  I 
grant  it, — and  I  should  be  the  last  person  to  say  that  I 
wonder  at  it ;  but  then  you  have  got  into  one  or  two 
scrapes  lately." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  his  grandson,  "when 
and  where  ?" 

"  Why,  for  instance,  the  Simmonses,  with  whom  you 
were  so  intimate ;  did  not  Mr.  Simmons  ask  you  rather 
an  awkward  question  the  last  time  you  were  there  ?" 

"He  asked  me  my  intentions,"  said  Frederick,  "my 


YOU  can't  marry  your  grandmother.        289 

views  with  respect  to  his  eldest  daughter,  Caroline — he 
inquired,  in  fact,  if  I  was  serious." 

*«  A  puzzler  that,  hey,  Fred  I"  chuckled  the  baronet 
who  was  not  sorry  the  occurrence  had  happened. 

"It  was  awkwkrd,  certainly,"  said  the  youth,  ''but 
how  could  I  help  it  ?  They  invariably  encouraged  me 
to  go  to  the  house,  and  I  positively  never  was  more 
attentive  to  one  daughter  than  to  another." 

''Possibly  not ;  but  depend  on  it,  where  there  are 
young  unmarried  daughters  in  a  family,  fathers  and 
mothers  never  receive  the  constant  visits  of  a  young  man 
without  calculating  probabilities,  and  looking  to  conse- 
quences. However,  for  Susan  Simmons  I  «are  not  three 
straws ;  I  am  only  anxious  that  a  similar  occurrence 
should  not  deprive  you  of  Miss  Denman's  society." 

"  That  is  a  very  different  affair.  Sir,"  said  Frederick, 
"  surely  you  would  not  compare  Susan  Simmons  with 
Maria?" 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  old  man,  "that  dehghts  me  ;  now 
you  are  coming  to  the  point,  the  other  was  a  mere 
flirtation — all  your  former  fancies  have  been  mere  flirta- 
tions'; but  with  Maria,  (as  you  say,)  it  is  different;  you 
really  love  her,  she  is  the  woman  you  select  for  a  wife." 

"  I  did  not  say  any  such  thing :  I  have  not  thought 
of  marriage,  I  am  too  young,  too  unsteady,  if  you  will." 

"  Unsteady  enough,  I  admit,"  said  Sir  Peter,  shrug- 
24 


si9a 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERING. 


ging  his  shoulders,  "but  by  no  means  too  young; 
besides,  your  father  being  dead,  and  your  mother  having 
made  a  second  marriage,  your  home  as  a  married  man 
will  be  so  desirable  for  your  sisters." 

*'  I  wonder  you  nevejr  married  again,  Sir,"  said 
Frederick. 

^'  You  would  not  wonder,"  said  Sir  Peter,  feelingly, 
"  had  you  witnessed  my  happiness  with  the  woman  I 
loved ;  never  tell  me  that  taking  a  second  wife  is  com- 
phmentary  to  the  first.  It  is  a  tacit  eulogium  on  the 
marriage  state,  I  grant  you ;  but  I  consider  it  anything 
rather  than  a  compHment  to  the  individual  in  whose 
place  you  put  a  successor.  They  who  have  loved 
and  who  have  been  beloved  like  myself,  cannot  imagine 
the  possibility  of  meeting  with  similar  happiness  in  a 
second  union.  Plead  the  passions  if  you  will  as  an 
apology  for  second  marriages,  but  never  talk  of  the 
affections ;  at  least  never  name  the  last,  and  the  happi- 
ness you  enjoyed  in  her  society,  as  a  reason  why  you 
lead  a  second  bride  by  the  tombstone  of  your  first,  and 
vow  at  the  altar  to  love  and  to  cherish  her." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Sir,  can  there  be  any  harm  in  a 
man's  marrying  a  second  wife  ?" 

*<  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  I  am  speaking  of  it  as  a  matter  of 
feehng,  not  of  duty ;  in  fact,  I  only  give  you  my  own 
individual  feelings,  without  n  notion  of  censuring  others. 


YOU  can't  marry  your  grandmother.         291 

But  were  I  about  to  many,  Maria  D^nman  is  the  woman 
I  should  choose." 

*'  I  wish  you  would  then,  my  dear  Sir,"  said  Fred- 
erick, carelessly,  "  for  then  I  might  enjoy  her  society 
without  the  dread  of  being  talked  into  a  marriage." 
With  these  words  he  left  the  room,  and  Sir  Peter  cogi- 
tated most  uncomfortably  over  the  unsatisfactory  result 
of  the  conversation. 

The  next  day  Frederick  Fairleigh  was  off  to  some 
races  which  were  held  in  the  neighbourhood,  and,  as  if 
to  show  a  laudable  spirit,  and  to  prove  that  he  was 
master  of  his  own  actions,  he  avoided  Maria  Denman 
as  much  as  possible,  and  flirted  with  a  new  acquaintance 
— the  beautiful  widow  of  an  officer.  - 

Sir  Peter  was  in  despair;  Maria,  who  was  an  orphan, 
and  had  been  entrusted  to  his  guardianship,  was  on  a 
visit  to  Oakley  Park,  and  in  her  pensive  countenance 
and  abstracted  manner  he  plainly  saw"  that  his  ward 
was  really  attached  to  Frederick,  and  was  hurt  and 
distressed  by  his  extraordinary  conduct. 

<<  I  wish  our  Frederick  would  come  home,"  said  Sir 
Peter,  who  had  been  watching  his  ward,  while  she 
dihgently  finished  a  cat's  left  whisker,  in  a  worsted 
work-stool  which  was  fixed  in  her  embroidery  frame. 

"  Our  Frederick  !"  said  Maria,  starting, 

<<  Yes,  my  dear,  our  Frederick ;  did  you  not  know 
he  was  in  love  with  you  ?" 


292 


"  I  hope  I  am  not  apt  to  fancy  young  men  are  in  love 
with  me,  sir  Peter,  and  certainly  Mr.  Fairleigh  has 
never  given  me  any  reason  to  — - — •" 
,     "  Stop,  stop,  no  fibs,"  said  the  Baronet. 

"  He  has  never  told  me  that  a  — — "  Maria  hesitated. 

**  He  has  never  formally  proposed  for  you ;  is  that 
what  you  mean  to  say?" 

"  Decidedly." 

"  And  never  will,  if  we  don't  make  him ;  but  do  you 
mean  to  say  that  he  has  never  given  you  reason  to 
suppose  that  he  loved  you  ?" 

^'Pray,  my  dear  guardian,"  said  Maria,  evading  a 
direct  reply,  "look  at  your  grandson;  you  must  be 
aw^re  that  his  attentions  are  lavished  indiscriminately, 
on  every  young  lady  he  gets  acquainted  with.  Words 
and  looks  that  might  be  seriously  interpreted  with  others, 
evidently  mean  nothing  with  him.  He — he  gives  it 
out  that  he  is  riot  a  marrying  man." 

"  Not  a  marrying  man  !  how  I  hate  that  phrase.  No 
man's  a  marrying  man  till  he  meets  with  the  woman 
that  he  wishes  to  marry.  And  if  men  are  not  marrying 
men,  I'd  be  glad  to  know  what  they  are  ? — a  pack 
of  reprobate   rogues !     As   to   Frederick,   I'm   deter- 

mmed " 

"  Pray  make  no  rash  resolves  respecting  your  grand- 
son. Sir  Peter — especially  in  any  matter  in  which  you 
may  think  I  am  concerned." 


YOU  can't  marry  your  grandmother.         293 

"I  tell  you  what,  Maria,  I  know  you  love  him,"  said 
Sir  Peter.  ''  I  see  his  attentions  have  won  your  heart. 
You  have  been,  and  are,  quite  right  to  endeavour  to 
hide  your  feelings,  but  it  is  all  in  vain ;  I  see  as  plain 
as  possible  that  you  are  dying  for  the  ungrateful,  foolish, 
abominable  fellow." 

"  "  Oh,  Sir !"  cried  Maria,  rising  in  confusion,  but  she 
again  sank  into  her  chair,  and  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands,  burst  into  tears. 

"Do  not  think  me  cruel  and  unkind,  Maria,"  said  the 
old  gentleman,  seating  himself  by  her  side  and  taking 
her  hand ;  "  you  are  very  dear  to  me,  you  and  my  grand- 
son are  the  two  beings  on  earth  who  engross  my  affections ; 
and,  believe  me,  Frederick  devotedly  loves  you." 

Maria  shook  her  head,  and  continued  weeping. 

Many  weeks  had  elapsed,  and  young  Fairleigh  was 
still  absent  from  Oakley  Park.  Maria  had,  however, 
resumed  her  cheerfulness,  and  Sir  Peter  seemed  less 
annoyed  than  might  have  been,  expected  at  his  grand- 
Son's  evident  determination  not  to  follow  his  advice.  To 
account  for  this  change  we  must  state,  that  Sir  Peter 
having  been  accidentally  obliged  to  search  for  some 
book  in  Frederick's  apartment,,  had  discovered  several 
matters  that  convinced  him  of  his  attachment  to  his 
ward,  and  those  presumptive  proofs  having  been  made 
known  to  Maria,  she  made  a  full  confession  of  the  state 
24* 


294  TRIENDSHIP'S     OFFERING. 

of  her  heart.  A  priiTt,  which,  when  exhibited  in  a  port- 
foHo  in  the  drawing-room,  had  been  pronounced  a  perfect 
resemblance  of  the  then  absent  Maria,  had  been  secretly 
taken  from  the  portfolio,  and  was  now  discovered  in 
Frederick's  room.  By  its  side  was  a  withered  nosegay, 
which  Maria  recognized  as  one  that  she  had  gathered 
and  given  to  him ;  and  in  the  same  place  was  found  a 
copy  of  verses  addressed  "To  Maria,"  and  breathing 
forth  a  lover's  fondest  vows. 

All  this  amounted  to  nothing  as  proofs  that  Frede- 
rick Fairleigh  was  in  duty  bound  to  marry  the  said 
Maria  Denman.  In  a  court  of  justice,  no  jury  would 
have  adjudged  damages  in  a  suit  for  breach  of  promise 
of  marriage,  on  such  trivial  grounds  as  these  ;  but  they 
served  to  show  Maria  that  he  who  had  thus  treasured 
up  her  resemblance  could  not  be  altogether  indifferent 
to  her,  and  she  at  least  felt  relieved  from  the  humiha- 
ting  idea  that  she  loved  one  who  had  never  for  a  mo- 
ment thought  seriously  about  her. 

Sir  Peter  and  his  ward  were  now  often  closeted  to- 
gether, and  one  day,  after  an  unusually  long  discussion, 
she  said, 

"Well,  Sir  Peter,  I  can  say  no  more  ;  I  consent." 
"  There's  a  dear  good  girl !  cried  the  old  man,  affec- 
tionately kissing  her,  "and  now  we'll  all  be  happy  in 
spite  of  him.     But  now  for  my  plans.     It  will  never 
do  to  stay  here  at  Oakley  Park  with  all  these  servants 


YOU  can't  marry  your  grandmother.        295 

to  wonder  and  chatter ;  no,  no.  To-morrow  you  and  I, 
and  your  maid  and  my  confidential  man,  will  go  to 
Bognor,  the  quietest  place  in  the  world,  and  we'll  have 
nice  lodgings  near  the  sea,  and  I'll  write  to  that  miser- 
able boy  to  come  and  meet  us." 

Maria  looked  rather  grave,  but  Sir  Peter,  chuckling 
with  dehght,  gave  her  another  kiss,  and  then  went  to 
expedite  their  departure,  and  to  write  a  letter  to  his 
grandson. 

Faii:leigh,  who  had  begun  to  get  very  tired  of  the 
fascinating  widow,  was  yawning  over  a  late  breakfast 
when  his  grandfather's  letter  was  laid  before  him. 

"Ah,"  thought  he,  "more  good  advice  I  suppose, 
urging  me  to  marry.  One  thing  at  all  events  I'm  re- 
solved on,  never  to  marry  a  widow :  if  people  would 
but  let  me  alone,  really  Maria  after  all  is — but  what 
says  the  Baronet  ?" 

"My  Dear  Grandson, 

"Finding  tha;t  all  my  good  advice  has  been  thrown 
away,  and  at  length  perceiving  that  you  never  intend 
to  invite  me  to  your  wedding,  I  now  write  to  announce 
my  own,  and  request  you  with  all  speed  to  hasten  to 
Bognor,  where  we  are  established  at  Beach  Cottage, 
and  where  nothing  but  your  presence  is  wanting  to 
complete  the  happiness  of  your  affectionate  grandfather, 

"Peter  Fairleigh." 


29G  friendship's    offering. 

"  Astenishing  1  of  all  men  in  the  wide  world  the 
very  last!"  Well,  there  was  no  use  in  wondering; 
Frederick  hastily  packed  up,  and  was  very  shortly  on 
his  way  to  Bognor  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  new- 
married  couple.  On  inquiring  for  *^  Beach  Cottage" 
he  was  directed  to  a  picturesque  abode,  the  very  beau 
ideal  of  a  house  to  ''  honey-moon"  in ;  and  he  was  im- 
mediately ushered  into  the  presence  of  the  Baronet, 
who  was  sitting  alone  in  a  charming  apartment  which 
looked  upon  the  sea. 

The  meeting  occasioned  some  httle  awkwardness  on 
both  sides,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  Frederick  when  Sir 
Peter  rose  to  leave  the  room,  saying,  "  there  is  a  lady 
who  will  expect  to  be  made  acquainted  with  you." 

"Yes,  Sir,"  said  Frederick;  "pray  permit  me  to 
pay  my  respects — to — to  ask  her  blessing ;  pray.  Sir, 
present  me  to — my  grandmother." 

Sir  Peter  left  the  room,  and  Frederick,  half  inclined 
to  view  the  marriage  in  a  ridiculous  Hght,  sat  wonder- 
ing what  sort  of  old  body  could  have  been  fool  enough 
to  enter  the  married  state  so  late  in  life.  He  heard  a 
footstep  slowly  approach  the  room,  (rather  decrepid, 
thought  he ;)  a  hand  touched  the  lock  of  the  door ;  it 
opened ;  and  Maria  stood  before  him  clothed  in  white. 

She  advanced  towards  him  with  a  smile,  held  out 
her  hand,  and  welcomed  him  to  Beach  Cottage. 

"  Good  heavens  !"  cried  Frederick,  sinking  on  the 


YOU  can't  marry  your  grandmother.         297 

sofa,  and  turning  as  pale  as  a  sheet,  ''is  it  possible  !  I 
— I  deserve  this — fool,  idiot,  madman  that  I  have  been  ; 
but  oh !  Maria,  how  could  you  consent  to  such  a  sacri- 
fice ?  You  must  have  known,  you  must  have  seen  my 
attachment.  Yet,  no,  no,  I  have  no  right  to  complain, 
I  alone  have  been  to  blame  !" 

Sir  Peter  had  followed  the  young  lady  into  the  room ; 
she  hastily  retreated  to  the  window,  and  the  Baronet,  in 
apparent  amazement,  addressed  his  grandson. 

"  What  means  this  language  addressed  to  that  la(iy, 
Sir ;  a  lady  you  avoided  when  I  wished  you  to  address 
her,  and  now  that  she  is  lost  to  you  for  ever,  you  insult 
her  by  a  declaration  of  attachment !" 

"  Sir  Peter,"  said  the  spoiled  child,  springing  from 
the  sofa,  "  if  you  were  not  my  father's  father  I'd — " 

"  Well,  what  would  you  do,  young  man  ?" 

"But  you  are!"  cried  Frederick,  "you  are,  and 
what  avails  expostulation ;"  and  he  sank  again  on  the 
sofa,  choking  with  agitation. 

"  Pray,  young  man,"  said  Sir,  Peter,  "  control  your 
emotions  ;  and  as  to  rage,  don't  give  way  to  it.  Were 
you  to  kill  me,  you  could  not  marry  my  widow." 

"  Not  marry  her — could  not,  were  she  free  !"  cried 
Frederick,  as  the  utter  hopelessness  of  the  case  flashed 
upon  him. 

"  No,  my  dear  boy,  no,  not  even  if  she  were  free." 

"  I  would  !"  shouted  the  youth. 


298  friendship's    offering. 

.<^  Impossible  !  if  I  were  in  rny  grave,  ycu  couldn't." 

*'I  could  !  I  would  !  I  will !"  cried  Frederick. 

"  What !  marry  your  grandmother  !" 

"  Yes !"  said  Fairleigh,  clenching  his  fists,  and  al- 
most foaming  at  the  mouth,  <<  yes,  I  repeat  it,  yes  !" 

It  was  impossible  to  hold  out  any  longer.  Sir  P^ter 
and  Maria  burst  into  immoderate  laughter,  which  only 
increased  the  agitation  of  the  sufferer,  until  Sir  Peter 
wiping  his  eyes  said, 

*<  Go  to  her,  boy,  go  to  her ;  my  plan  has  answered, 
as  I  thought  it  would,  and  you  will  be  a  happy  fellow 
in  spite  of  your  folly." 

Maria  earnestly  impressed  upon  her  lover's  mind 
that  she  had  most  reluctantly  yielded  to  the  persuasions 
of  her  guardian,  in  suffering  this  little  drama  to  be  got 
up  for  his  edification ;  and  Frederick  having  now  ex- 
perienced the  anguish  which  he  would  have  endured 
had  he  really  lost  Maria,  proved  by  his  steady  devotion 
the  strength  of  his  attachment.  ^'  Beach  Cottage"  was 
retained  as  the  residence  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frederick 
Fairleigh  during  the  honey-moon,  and  Sir  Peter  danced 
at  their  wedding. 


THE   RECONCILIATION. 

A  REVERT. 
BY    THE    EDITOR. 

Reader;  I  know  not  what  may  be  the  history  of 
those  upon  whose  domestic  privacy  the  licensed  pencil 
of  the  artist  has  intruded,  in  order  to  produce  the  Httle 
tableau  that  serves  us  for  a  theme  this  sunny  afternoon. 
I  know  not  whether,  indeed,  the  scene  be  real  or 
imaginary;  nor  is  this  ignorance  of  much  importance. 
In  the  field  of  light  Hterature,  the  probable  is  more 
available  than  the  true,  whether  the  object  of  the  writer 
be  amusement  or  instruction ;  and  the  muse  being  in  a 
dreamy,  wandering,  absent  mood  to-day,  would  deeply 
regret  being  harnessed  to  the  car  of  history,  and  com- 
pelled to  plod  along  the  dusty  turnpike  road  of  real  life, 
hemmed  in  on  either  side  by  the  stiff  post-and-rail 
fences  of  the  "  unities"  of  time  and  place,  and  jarred 
or  rendered  foot  sore  by  the  sharp,  angular  rocks  of 
naked  fact.     Our  seat,  for  the  moment,  (I  speak  mes- 


304  friendship's    offering. 

thorns  of  that  green-briar  overarching  our  wild-wood 
bower,  and  let  us  muse  upon  it  together.  The  destiny 
of  the  rivulet  cannot  be  changed,  for  it  is  determined 
by  unbending  physical  laws  ;  but  are  there  not  creatures 
of  loftier  purpose,  endowed  with  the  god-like  gift  of 
will,  who  can  choose  between  the  sunshine  and  the 
shade  ?  It  is  for  these  that  I  would  seek  ^'  Books  in 
running  brooks  ;"  bringing  the  parental  voice  of  nature 
to  criticise  the  works  of  art.  Have  we  not  here  a  scene 
upon  the  very  stage,  of  which  the  glowing  pageantry 
and  exaggerated  splendour  so  often  tempt  the  humbly 
happy  from  the  calm  shelter  of  domestic  life  into  the 
strife  of  men  ?     Let  us  not  quarrel  with  ambition, 

"The  glorious  fault  of  angela  and  of  Gods  :" 

It  is  a  noble  or  a  grovelling  passion — a  virtue  or  a 
vice — according  to  its  object,  and  the  means  by  which 
that  object  is  attempted :  but,  among  the  weaknesses  of 
human  nature,  the  foibles  of  our  species,  no  one  is 
productive  of  a  larger  amount  of  real  suffering  than  the 
almost  universal  envy  of  what  the  world  calls  greatness 
or  good  fortune.  How  often,  in  the  humbler  walks  of 
life,  this  Stygian  mist  is  permitted  to  cloud  the  bright 
sky  of  existence,  mildew  the  hnks  of  young  affection, 
and  change  to  gloomy  phantoms  the  shadows  from  high 
heaven  peopling  Hope's  early  dream,  as  the  boy  gazes 
with   enchanted  eye  and   wildly  beating  heart   upon 


THE    RECONCILIATION.  306 

the  rosy  mirror  of  the  moon !  But,  to  our  theme  once 
more ! 

Proud  lineage  and  station  are  attested  by  the  ermined 
robe  of  that  high  dame.  Princely — it  may  be  royal — 
are  the  medalion  hanging  on  the  breast,  and  the  tall 
Eagle-plume  of  that  young  chief : — Scottish  mo^t  pro- 
bably. The  unadorned  attire  speaks  of  a  kingly  rank, 
which  calls  not  for  personal  display  in  aid  of  its  pre- 
tensions. These  dramatis  personse  are  relicts  of  an  age 
of  comparative  darkness,  when  man,  unfitted  to  be  free, 
had  need  of  stubborn  rulers — when  the  will  of  one, 
by  "  right  divine,"  swayed  the  fierce  hcense  of  the 
untaught  miUions.  They  died  before  the  Corsican 
commenced  the  modern  game  of  bowls,  in  which  mon- 
archs  stood  for  pins — before  the  blue-frocked  rabble 
danced,  and  jeered,  and  sang,  guiding  their  midnight 
gambols  by  the  hght  of  burning  thrones. 

But  while  the  world  lasts,  rank  will  last.  Though 
the  days  are  rapidly  passing  away,  in  which  mere 
political  power,  rendered  permanent  by  laws  that  have 
lost  their  adaptation  to  the  wants  and  feelings  of  man- 
kind, can  be  permitted  to  define  the  boundaries  of 
classes,  and  close  the  gates  on  the  great  highway  of 
civilization  against  the  vulgar  crowd; — though  the 
parent  who  has  achieved  eminence  by  superior  desert, 
or  inherited  it  by  old  prescription,  can  no  longer  say, 
^'  this  will  I  surely  remit  to  my  descendants,  regardless  of 


306  friendship's    offering. 

their  merits ;" — yet  each  one  for  himself  accumulates  his 
share  of  wealth  or  fame,  and  distances  his  fellows,  as 
skill,  tact,  or  knowledge  clears  his  path.  Hence  fol- 
low those  divisions  in  society  which  are  still  the  cause 
of  such  intense  heart-burning  with  those  who  mistake 
their  strength,  and  pit  themselves  against  superior 
powers  in  the  world's  great  hyppodrome,  now  open  to 
all  comers.  When  will  mankind  perceive  that  wealth, 
fame,  and  power  are  no  potent  talismans,  raising  their 
fortunate  possessors  above  the  ills  of  hfe,  but  mere 
delusive  lenses,  exaggerating  to  those  who  use  them 
alike  the  good  and  evil  of  existence,  leaving  the  scale 
of  happiness  unswayed.  Would  this  were  all !  but 
they  are  also  weapons :  and  for  their  proper  use,  the 
holder  owes  fearful  accountability.  Above  the  ills  of 
hfe!  Why,  a  mere  breath,  a  look,  which  common 
men  pass  by  and  smile  at,  haunting  the  memory  of  the 
sleeping  monarch,  steals  from  his  pillow  all  the  balm 
of  rest  and  peoples  night  with  phantoms : — a  mere  idle 
word  when  the  wine  clouds  discretion,  shakes  a  pro- 
vince. Above  the  ills  of  hfe  ?  Gaze  on  the  upturned 
eyes  of  that  noble  dame,  seeking  so  pleadingly  forgive- 
ness for  some  momentary  coldness  or  hasty  word,  born, 
it  may  be,  of  a  passing  breeze  of  jealousy,  or  the  un- 
satisfied exactiveness  of  a  woman's  heart,  that  would 
make  whole  nations  wait  upon .  the  idle  whims  of 
woman's  fondness.     His   Majesty,  perhaps,  sat   late, 


TflE    RECONCILIATION,  307 

last  night,  in  council ; — perhaps  he  chucked  the  smooth 
chin  of  some  maid  of  honour — "/air,/a^,"  but  not  quite 
^^ forty.'*''  Mark  hoVv  the  prince — no,  not  the  prince — the 
husband — with  palms  spread  forth  in  manly  protestation, 
wonders  that  such  hght  cause  should  overcast  the  morn- 
ing sky,  and  almost  gather  into  rain  the  bright  dew 
trembhng  on  the  lashes  of  his  gentle  queen,  feehng, 
no  doubt,  more  joy  in  the  withdrawal  of  that  little  cloud 
from  the  horizon  of  domestic  peace,  than  if  a  conquered 
realm  were  brought  beneath  his  sway.  The  scene 
would  grace  a  cottage  as  aptly  as  a  palace. — Alas,  these 
rulers  of  mankind  are  made  of  vulgar  stuff. 

Yet  ambition  is  the  natural  stimulus  of  youth  : — to 
check  it,  would  be  destructive  of  an  instinct  to  which, 
the  world  owes  all  the  noblest  gifts  which  human 
ingenuity  and  human  industry  have  added  to  the  store 
of  social  blessings.  If,  in  its  excesses,  this  passion, 
misdirected,  has  clothed  whole  tribes  in  mourning,  left 
nations  desolate,  exterminated  races,  and  swept,  like  a 
universal  deluge,  over  human  rights — leaving  the  bones 
of  murdered  patriots,  as  buried  fossils,  to  mark  the  age 
of  stratum  after  stratum  among  the  rocks  of  history 
upheaved  by  each  convulsion  which  bripgs  man  nearer 
to  perfections— it  is  not  that  this  passion  is  in  itself  an 
evil,  but  that  the  path  of  the  ambitious  has  been  badly 
chosen.  It  is  a  false  philosophy  which  teaches  that 
the  emotions  of  the  human  heart  are  in  their  very 
25* 


308  friendship's    offering. 

nature  criminal — which  tells  us  to  destroy  where  we 
should  merely  guide  with  wisdom.  The  passions,  like 
all  other  faculties,  are  of  a  heavenly  birth — they  are 
creations  of  the  universal  Father ; — and,  except  when 
Providence  steps  forward,  and  for  some  special  purpose, 
breathes  into  the  soul  a  higher,  holier  motive,  such  as 
supports  the  martyr,  smiling  at  the  stake,  they  are  the 
proper  handmaids  of  the  virtues,  until  the  infatuated 
owner  sells  them  in  hopeless  slavery  to  the  vices. 

But  every  sphere  erf"  hfe,  however  humble,  presents 
the  appropriate  food  for  every  mental  appetite,  in 
reasonable  abundance.  Ambition,  uncorrupted,  finds 
ample  support  in  the  cottage,  as  well  as  in  the  palace : 
•^those  wild  grapes,  hanging  in  such  profusion  from 
yonder  vine,  as  it  trails  its  graceful  festoonery  from  the 
bough  of  the  tall  oak  to  the  branches  of  the  neighbour- 
ing hickory,  may  not  possess  the  luscious  flavour  of 
the  highly  cultivated  friiit  that  crowns  your  arbours  on 
the  margin  of  the  Schuylkill,  but  their  acid  raciness  is 
suited  to  the  place  and  the  occasion.  In  the  magnificent 
halls  of  the  capital,  upon  silver  salvers,  and  warmed 
into  richer  tints  by  glances  from  the  eyes  of  sunny 
beauty,  even  I  would  prefer  the  latter;  but  here,  in  this 
distant  region  embosomed  in  the  mountains  and  shaded 
by  primeval  forests,  where  silver  salvers  are  unknown, 
and  beauty  travels  barefoot  in  a  homespun  gown — say, 
would  you  bring  here,  to  this  scene  of  simple,  natural 


THE    RECONCILIATION.  309 

beauty,  such  luxuries  of  cities  ?  To  gratify  desires  so 
libelling  all  taste,  you  must  express  the  jtiice, — ferment 
it  to  a  poison, — change  its  very  nature, — and  then,  at 
last,  it  would  not  be  the  grape,  but  wine- — intoxicating 
wine  !  Instead  of  cooling,  it  would  enhance  the  fever 
of  your  hp  : — the  httle  rivulet  at  your  side  laughs 
louder  at  the  very  thought  of  such  inebriate  ambition ! 
Let  us  look  out  upon  the  valley ;  fot  it  is  time  to  point 
the  moral  of  our  theme. 

See  you  yon  meadow?  Over  one-half  its  surface 
the  thick  piled  velvet  bows  and  bends,  as  wave  after 
wave  of  verdure  rolls  onward  before  the  warm  wind  of 
the  summer  noon,  disturbing  as  it  goes  group  after 
group  of  snow-white  flowers,  which  sparkle  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  sunshine,  tipping  the  passing  billow  with 
a  mimic  spray-cap,  then  sinking  from  the  sight.  What 
an  ocean  of  rich  life  is  that  little  meadow! — But  look 
upon  the  other  half!  There,  the  yellow  earth  peeps 
forth  among  the  stubble,  and  the  wide  space  seems  Hke 
some  lonely  beach  on  which  the  high  seas  breaking 
have  chronicled  the  march  of  the  retreating  tide  in 
long  dark  rows  of  weeds,  heaped  where  each  ninth 
wave  fell.  ^  The  beautiful  blossoms  lie  browned  and 
shrivelling  in  the  heat ;  for  the  strong,  tall  grass  that 
shielded  them  has  fallen.  Sweet  are  the  odours  of 
those  swarths  of  new-mown  hay,  and  many  a  proud 
steed,  as  he  bears  his  ruddy-tinted  mistress  to  church 


310    '  friendship's    offering. 

on  Sunday,  many  a  toil-worn  ox  retreating  to  his  stall 
as  the  cows  co#ne  lowing  to  the  cottage  gate,  will  bless 
the  hand  that  rifled  thq  field  of  its  fragrant  wealth — 
a  spoil  that  caused  no  tears. 

Between  the  falling  and  the  fallen  grass,  on  comes 
the  train  of  mowers.  Each  blade  glances  brightly  en 
echelon,  as  with  quickening  stroke  the  emulous  rustics 
struggle  to  press  upon  their  stout  young  leader, — the 
heir  apparent  6f  a  hundred  acres.  In  vain  ;  they  near 
yon  broad  old  oak  that  stands  upon  the  margin  of  the 
upland,  overshadowing  road  and  fence  and  meadow. 
Each  stroke  as  his  strong  arm  springs  to  the  labour, 
widens  his  distance  from  the  nearest  competitor,  till  the 
scythe  edge  ghdes  harmless  over  the  trampled  green, 
and  stepping  briskly  under  the  venerable  branches,  he 
sounds  with  clattering  hone  upon  the  ringing  steel,  the 
rude  but  merry  peal  of  rural  victory.  Casting  his  eye 
in  triumph  towards  the  cottage  door,  hard  by,  where 
sits  an  old  man  on  a  wooden  bench  smoking  his  long 
Dutch  pipe,  the  conqueror  waits  for  his  reward.  Is  it 
the  laurel  crown  ?  No ;  'tis  of  the  wild-rose  and  the 
Kalmia  leaf,  the  wreath  yon  maiden  brings  to  bind  his 
brow,  and  shade  those  eye^  now  dancing  with  the  fire 
of  gratified  ambition.  With  a  frank  smile  and  bound- 
ing step — the  napkin-covered  lunch-basket  swinging 
lightly  on  an  arm  well  formed  for  sober  service,  though 
graceful  as  if  born  to  sweep  the  harp  in  the  rich  halls 


THE    RECONCILIATION.  Sit 

of  cities — she  trips  to  meet  her  lover,  her  affianced. 
Cottage  love  needs  not  the  stern  restraints  which  guard 
the  feelings  in  more  polished  life.  Where  all  is  natu- 
ral and  innocent,  why  should  there  be  reserve  ?  Where 
all  is  free  from  soil,  what  need  of  circumspection  ? 

Happy,  thrice  happy  swain !  Thy  vision  bounded 
by  "a  few  paternal  acres;"  thy  wishes,  like  thy 
knowledge,  centred  in  a  narrow  sphere,  where  harvest . 
follows  seed-time  and  summer  yields  to  autumn, — as  in 
thy  labours,  so  hkewise  in  thy  life  !  The  past,  with 
thee,  foretells  the  certain  future.  Even  in  the  solitary 
grain  of  wheat,  thou  seest  the  teeming  richness  of  the 
next  year's  crop'— even  in  the  calm  smile  of  that  hale 
old  smoker,  thou  seest  thyself  reflected — the  ripeness  of 
thy  day  when  ready  for  the  sickle.  All  that  thou  hast 
is  truly  thine ;  thou  knowest  its  origin  and  measurest  its 
end.  Seek  not  to  wander  forth  from  this  thy  Eden, 
into  the  labyrinth  of  capitals,  or  tortuous  paths  of 
greatness.  -  , 

Alas  !  the  dream  is  over ;  that  happy  state  in  which 
the  soul  is  permitted  to  part  company  with  its  animal 
yoke-fellow,  and  wander  freely  through  all  time — all 
space — summoning  at  will  the  creatures  of  the  past, 
the  present  and  the  future,  to  hold  sweet  converse  with 
the  poet  or  plead  before  the  self-established  court  of 
calm  philosophy ! 


312  friendship's    offering. 

-»    -  "The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 

^b.ive  this  bank  note  world,  is  gone." 

Gone  is  the  mountain  scene,  the  valley  and  the  rivu- 
let ;  and  here,  in  the  crowded  haunts  of  men,  where 
Philosophy  sits  scratching  its  ponderous  forehead  over 
his  ledger  and  day-book,  while  poor  neglected  Poetry 
is  quietly,  though  rather  sadly,  darning  her  stockings, 
the  bell  is  ringing  for  supper.  Adieu,  then,  for  the 
present ;  but  let  us  each  carry  with  us  the  moral  of 
the  dream : 

Rank,  power,  wealth,  station,  are  but  exaggerating 
lenses,  bringing  nearer  to  the  heart's  eye  the  woes  and 
blessings  of  existence ;  while  duties  well-performed  in 
any  sphere,  are  the  true  means  of  happiness.  The 
heaven  of  hfe  is  ihe  domestic  circle,  and  a  false  ambi- 
tion, wed  to  selfishness,  the  ruling  spirit  of  an  earthly 
Tartarus. 

Napoleon  was  at  Brienne : — ^not  the  ardent  boy,  thril- 
hng  with  hope  and  trembling  at  the  shadowy  thoughts, 
the  dim  forebodings  of  his  terrible  mission — but  the 
earth's  emperor,  "  the  destroyer,  the  lion  of  cities." 
The  maps  of  many  nations  were  before  him  :  his  finger 
traced  new  boundaries  for  the  mighty,  by  a  still 
mightier  will : — "  The  iron  tongue  of  time,  in  the  old 
tower,  told  of  the  revolutions  before  which  even  the 
world's  masters  bow ; — Once  more,  he  remembered  the 


THE    RECONCILIATION.  313 

ardent  boy — the  days  when  even  ambition  was  unsul- 
lied, and  a  source  of  unalloyed  delight — Napoleon 
wept ! 

Reader,  wilt  thou  not  join  me  in  a  prayer  ?  What- 
ever be  our  destiny  in  the  fierce  struggle  of  mankind — 
wherever  duty  calls  us  in  the  path  laid  down  for  each 
that  lives — grant  us,  kind  heaven,  an  honest  emulation, 
but  spare,  oh,  spare  us  envy,  and  that  bitterest  curse 

"Vaulting  ambition,  that  o'erlesips  its  sell!" 


VANITY  FAIR. 


BY  THOMAS  H.  BAYLY,  ESQ. 


To  Vanity  Fair  all  my  neighbours  have  been, 
To  see  all  the  sights  that  were  there  to  be  seen ; 
Old  and  young,  rich  and  poor,  were  all  hurrying  there, 
To  pick  up  a  bargain  at  Vanity  Fair  ! 


A  very  rich  mau  ostentatiously  came, 

To  buy  with  his  lucre  a  liberal  name ; 

He  published  his  charities  everywhere. 

And  thought  he'  bought  virtue  at  Vanity  Fair ! 


A  lady,  whose  beauty  was  on  the  decline. 
Rather  tawny  from  age,  like  an  over-kept  wine  ; 
Bought  lilies  and  roses,  teeth,  plumpers,  and  hair. 
And  emerged  a  new  person  from  Vanity  Fair ! 


VANITY    FAIR.  315 

Another,  so  plain  that  she  really  resigned 
Pretensions  to  beauty — save  that  of  the  mind  ; 
Picked  up  a  half-mad,  intellectual  air. 
And  came  back  a  Genius  from  Vanity  Fair ! 


A  soldier  came  next,  and  he  flourished  a  flag, 
By  sword,  gun,  and  bayonet  torn  to  a  rag ! 
He  had  faced  the  grim  mouth  of  a  cannon,  to  share 
Renown's  twig  of  laurel  in  Vanity  Fair  ! 


A  mathematician  there  made  up  his  mind 
To  sneer  at  all  things  of  a  frivolous  kind  ; 
A  circle,  he  vowed,  is  by  no  means  a  square. 
And  he  thought  he  enlightened  all  Vanity  Fair ! 


Another,  despising  refinement  and  grace, 

Growled  at  all  who  were  near,  with  a  frown  on  his  face 

He  prided  himself  on  being  rude  as  a  bear. 

So  he  shone  the  Eccentric  of  Vanity  Fair ! 

A  grand  politician,  unshaken,  withstood 
Individual  ill  for  the  national  good ; 
To  mount  a  new  step  on  promotion's  high  stair, 
He  toiled  for  precedence  in  Vanity  Fair ! 
26 


316  friendship's   offering. 

A  ci-devant  heau,  with' one  foot  in  the  grave, 
Still  followed  the  ladies,  their  shadowy  slave  ; 
Concealing  his  limp  with  a  strut  debonair, 
He  smoothed  down  his  wrinkles  in  Vanity  Fair ! 


The  next  was  an  orater,  longing  to  teach. 
And  to  cut  a  great  figure  by  figures  of  speech ; 
At  dinner  he  sat  in  the  President's  chair. 
In  attitudes  purchased  at  Vanity  Fair  ! 

One  sailed  to  the  Red  Sea — and  one  to  the  Black ; 
One  danced  on  the  tight  rope — and  one  on  the  slack 
And  all  were  agog  for  the  popular  stare, — 
All  mad  to  be  Lions  in  Vanity  Fair ! 

One  raised  on  new  doctrines  his  personal  pride, — 
His  pen  put  the  wisdom  of  ages  aside  ; 
The  apple  of  Eve  after  all  was  a  pear  ! 
So  said  the  Reformer  of  Vanity  Fair  ! 


A  poet  came  last,  with  a  fine  rolling  eye. 
His  shirt  collar  open — his  neckcloth  thrown  by : — * 
Such  matters  evince  inspiration,  he'll  swear. 
So  he  sticks  up  his  portrait  in  Vanity  Fair ! 


THE  FLOWER  GIRL  OF  THE  PONT  NEUF. 

I  WAS  crossing  the  Pont  Neuf  at  the  moment  when  a 
porter  belonging  to  the  Bank  of  France,  pretty  well 
tired  of  the  weight  he  carried  (it  was  a  bag  containing 
nine  thousand  francs  in  silver),  stopped  to  rest  himself 
by  leaning  against  the  parapet  wall  of  the  bridge;  but 
the  moment  that  he  did  so,  his  valuable  load,  either 
from  awkwardness  or  carelessness,  slipped  out  of  his 
hands,  and  fell  into  the  Seine,  which  is  very  deep  just 
in  that  spot. 

Never  shall  I  forget  his  look  of  despair.  He  made 
a  movement  as  if  to  jump  over ;  and,  I  beheve,  would 
have  effected  his  purpose,  but  for  the  presence  of  mind 
of  a  girl ;  a  little  delicate  looking  thing  of  about  sixteen, 
a  violet-seller,  who,  clasping  her  arms  around  him, 
cried  for  help,  which  in  an  instant  was  afforded. 

Myself  and  some  others  seized  him;  he  struggled 
with  us  desperately.  ''  Let  me  go  !  let  me  go  !"  cried 
he  ;  "I  am  ruined  for  ever.  My  wife,  my  children, 
what  will  become  of  you  ?"     A  multitude  of  voices 


318 


FRIENDSHIP  S     OFFERIKG. 


were  raised  at  once,-  some  to  console,  others  to  inquire  ; 
but  above  the  rest  were  heard  the  clear  and  silver  tones 
of  the  little  violet  girl : — "  My  friend,  have  patience, 
you  Jiave  lost  nothing/'  "  Nothing !  Oh,  heavens  !" 
"No,  no;  I  tell  you  no.  Let  some  one  run  for  the 
divers  ;  there  is  no  doubt  they  will  succeed  in  bringing 
it  up."  <<  She  is  right,"  resounded  from  a  number  of 
voices,  and  from  mine  among  the  rest ;  and  in  an  in- 
stant, half-a-dozen  people  ran  to  fetch  the  divers. 

Those  who  remained,  exerted  themselves  as  well  as 
they  could  to  solace  the  poor  porter.  One  brought 
him  a  small  glass  of  liqueur ;  another,  a  httle  brandy ; 
a  third,  some  eau  de  Cologne;  and  four  or  five  pre- 
sented the  grand  specific,  sugar  and  water.  The  little 
violet  girl  had  been  before  all  the  rest  in  administering 
a  cordial ;  and,  perhaps,  hers  was  the  most  efficacious 
— 2i  glass  of  pure  water,  which  she  held  to  his  trem- 
bhng  lips,  and  made  him  swallow.  "Drink,"  she 
cried,  "  drink  it  up,  it  will  do  you  good." 

Whether  it  was  the  water,  or  the  kind  and  sympa- 
thetic manner  with  which  it  was  offered,  that  relieved 
him,  I  know  not,  but  certainly  one  of  the  two  had  its 
eflfect,  for  his  looks  grew  less  wild ;  he  burst  into  a  pas- 
sionate fit  of  weeping,  and,  by  degrees,  became  com- 
posed enough  to  make  his  acknowledgments  to  the 
spectators,  who  had  shown  such  interest  in  his  misfor- 
tune. . 


THE    FLOWER    GIRL    OF    THE    PONT    NEUF.  319 

The  divers  soon  came,  and  one  of  them  descended 
without  loss  of  time.  Never  did  I  witness  such  an  in- 
tense anxiety  as  the  search  excited :  if  the  fate  of  every- 
one present  had  hung  upon  the  success,  they  could 
not  have  testified  greater  interest  in  it.  He  soon  re- 
appeared, bringing  up — not  the  bag  of  silver,  but  a 
small  iron  box.  It  was  instantly  broken  open,  and 
found  to  be  full  of  twenty-franc  pieces  in  gold ;  they 
were  quickly  counted,  and  found  to  amount  to  nearly 
twelve  thousand  francs  ;  about  four  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  sterling.  There  were  three  divers,  who,  over- 
joyed at  their  good  fortune,  speedily  divided  the  prize 
among  themselves^  and  directly  afterwards  another 
descended  in  search  of  the  porter's  bag. 

This  time  he  returned  with  it  in  triumph.  The  poor 
fellow  could  scarcely  speak  when  it  was  put  into  his 
hands.  On  coming  to  himself,  he  cried  with  vehe- 
mence, "  God  reward  you  !"  you  know  not  what  good 
you  have  done — I  am  the  father  of  five  children.  I 
was  formerly  in  good  circumstances,  but  a  series  of 
misfortunes  reduced  me  to  the  greatest  distress.  All 
that  I  had  left  was  an  irreproachable  character,  and 
that  procured  me  my  present  situation ;  I  have  had  it 
but  a  week.  To-day  I  should,  without  your  help, 
have  lost  it.  My  wife,  my  children,  would  have  been 
exposed  to  all  the  horrors  of  want ;  they  would  have 
been  deprived  of  a  husband  and  a  father;  for  never, 
26* 


320  friendship's    offering. 

no  never,  could  I  have  survived  the  ruin  I  had  brought 
upon  them !  It  is  you  who  have  saved  us  all ;  God 
will  reward  you,  he  alone  can." 

While  he  thus  spoke,  he  rummaged  in  his  pockets, 
and  drew  out  some  francs.  "  This  is  all  I  have,  'tis 
very  httle ;  but  tell  me  where  you  live,  and  to-morrow 
— "  ^'  Not  a  farthing,"  interrupted  they,  with  one 
voice  ;  and  one  of  them  added,  "  Stop  a  bit,  let  me  talk 
to  my  comrades."  They  stepped  aside  for  a  moment; 
I  followed  them  with  my  eyes,  and  saw  that  they 
listened  to  their  companion  with  emotion.  "  We  are 
all  of  a  mind,"  said  he,  returning  with  them.  "  Yes, 
my  friend,  if  we  have  been  serviceable  to  you,  you  also 
have  been  the  cause  of  our  good  fortune  ;  it  seems  to 
me  that  we  ought  to  share  with  you  what  God  has  sent 
us  through  your  means.  My  companions  think  so  too, 
and  we  are  going  to  divide  it  into  four  equal  shares." 

The  porter  would  have  remonstrated,  but  his  voice 
was  drowned  by  the  acclamations  of  the  spectators. 
<<  Generous  fellows  !" — <<  Much  good  may  it  do  you  !" 
— "The  same  luck  to  you,"  resounded  from  every 
mouth.  There  was  not  one  present  but  seemed  as 
happy  as  if  he  or  she  were  about  to  participate  in  the 
contents  of  the  box.  The  money  was  divided,  and,  in 
spite  of  his  excuses,  the  porter  was  forced  to  take  his 
share. 

The  generous  divers  went  their  way  ;  the  crowd  be- 


THE    FLOWER    GIRL    OF    THE    PONT    NEUF.  321 

gan  to  disperse  ;  but  the  porter  still  lingered,  and  I  had 
the  curiosity  to  remain,  in  order  to  watch  his  motions. 
He  approached  the  little  violet  girl.  ''  Ah  !  my  dear," 
cried  he,  "what  do  I  not  owe  you  !  but  for  you  it  had 
been  all  over  with  me.  ,My  wife,  my  little  ones,  must 
thank  you."  '^  Ma  foil  it  is  not  worth  mentioning. 
Would  you  have  had  me  stand  by  and  see  you  drown 
yourself!"  "  But  your  courage,  your  strength  !  could 
one  have  expected  it  from  so  young  a  girll"  <<Ah  ! 
there  is  no  want  of  strength  where  there  is  good  will." 
<«  And  nobody  ever  had  more  of  that.  Give  me  six  of 
your  bouquets,  my  dear ;  my  children  are  so  fond  of 
violets,  and  never  have  they  prized  any  as  they  will 
do  these." 

She  twisted  a  bit  of  thread  round  six  of  her  fairy 
nosegays,  and  presented  them  to  him.  He  deposited 
them  carefully  in  his  bosom,  and  shpped  something  into 
her  hand ;  then,  without  waiting  to  hear  the  acknow- 
ledgements which  she  began  to  pour  forth,  took  to  his 
heels  as  if  his  bag  had  been  made  of  feathers. 

The  girl  looked  after  him  with  pleasure  sparkling 
in  her  eyes.  "  What  will  you  take  for  the  rest  of 
your  nosegays?"  said  I,  going  up  to  her.  "  Whatever 
you  please  to  give  me,"  cried  she,  with  vivacity;  "for 
that  good  man's  money  will  burn  my  pocket  till  I  get 
home  to  give  it  to  my  mother.  Oh  !  how  glad  will  «he 
be  to  have  all  that,  and  still  more  so  when  she  knows 


322 


why  it  has  been  given  me."  The  reader  will  easily 
believe  that  my  purchase  was  speedily  made ;  the  good 
girl's  purse  was  something  the  heavier  for  it ;  and  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  thinking,  that  I  contributed,  in  a 
small  degree,  to  reward  the  goodness  of  heart  which 
she  had  so  unequivocally  displayed.  She  hastened 
home  with  her  Jittle  treasure,  and  I  returned  to  my 
lodging,  to  put  my  violets  into  water,  promising  myself, 
as  I  did  so,  to  be  a  frequent  customer  to  the  little  nose- 
gay girl  of  the  Pont  Neuf. 


THE  FOUNT  OF  TEARS. 

BY    THE    REV.    THOMAS    DALE. 

I  WATCHED  beside  him,  when  from  earth 

All  that  he  loved  had  passed  away ; 

And  mute,  dark,  desperate  dreams  have  birth, 

Which  lead  the  soul  astray, — 

Fixed  was  his  brow,  and  cahn  his  air ; 

No  tear  was  in  his  vacant  eye, — 

They  said  that  tears  would  sooth  despair : 

I  led  him  forth  to  try. 

We  sought  the  dweUing  of  the  dead. 

Where  she — the  loved  !  the  lost !  was  laid  ; 

I  bade  him  read  the  name — he  read, 

Yet  not  a  look  betrayed 

The  consciousness  that  here  she  slept 

The  last  unchanging  sleep  ;— 

Where  friends  less  dear  had  waked  and  wept. 

He  only  did  not  weep^ 


324  friendship's    offering. 

I  led  liim  to  the  moss-clacLoak, 

^here  they  had  pledged  love's  first  fond  vow ; 

No  sound  the  dreary  stillness  broke, 

That  whispered,  <<  Where  art  thou  ?" 

Nought  did  he  seem  to  hear  or  see 

Of  grief,  in  that  familiar  spot ; 

"  Poor  maid,"  I  thought,  *'  and  can  it  be 

That  thou  art  thus  forgot !" 

Homeward  we  turned ;  when  through  the  wood 

Came  down  a  young  and  joyous  pair. 

The  mourner  started — trembled — stood  ; 

The  spell  I  sought  was  there. 

At  sight  of  LIVING  LOVE,  awoke 

The  feehngs  that  so  long  had  slept ; 

The  chain  that  bound  his  soul  was  broke, — 

He  sat  him  down  and  wept ! 


SONNET. 


LOVE  IS  THE  EULEILLTNG  OF  THE  LAW.' 


BY    H- 


"  Lo  here  !  lo  there  !"  the  pompous  schoolman  cries, 

"  Omit  those  rites,  perform  these  mummeries, 

Perdition — paradise  awaits  the  choice  !" 

Bewildered  nature  falters  at  the  voice, 

And  leans  despairing  on  the  silent  tomb. 

O,  Thou  whose  word  can  break  the  mystic  gloom. 

Teach  me  thyself !  nor  leave  me  to  this  doom ; 

Though  storms  and  clouds  obscure  the  Hve-long  day, 

And  snares  and  sorrows  'tend  on  all  the  way, 

Let  me  behold  Thee  seated  on  the  throne ; 

Thy  sovereign  will — the  rule  of  right — alone. 

Is  the  sure  pilot  of  man's  destiny. 

In  life — in  death — let  this  my  precept  be ; 

*»  The  true  philosophy  is  love  to  Thee  !" 


^THE  HAUNTED   SHIP. 


A  TRUE  STORT— AS  FAR  AS  IT  GOES. 
BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF    <'THE    SKETCH-BOOK." 

The  world  abounds  with  ghost-stories,  but  it  is 
exceedingly  difficult  to  get  them  at  first  hand ;  that  is 
to  say  ;  from  persons  who  have  actually  seen  the  ghosts  : 
this  may  be  the  reason  why  they  have  fallen  into  some 
discredit  with  the  dubious.  I  once,  however,  heard  a 
story  of  the  kind  from  one  who  came  within  an  ace  of 
being  an  eye-witness,  and  who  behoved  in  it  most 
honestly.  He  was  a  worthy  captain  of  the  sea ;  a  native 
either  of  Nantucket  or  Martha's  Vineyard,  I  forget 
which ;  at  any  rate,  of  a  place  noted  for  its  breed  of 
hardy  mariners.  I  met  with  him  in  the  ancient  city  of  Se- 
ville, having  anchored  with  his  brig  in  the  Guadalquiver, 
in  the  course  of  a  wandering  voyage.  Our  conversa- 
tion, one  day,  turned  upon  the  wonders  and  adventures 
of  the  sea ;  when  he  informed  me  that,  among  his  multi- 


THE    HAUNTED    SHIP. 


327 


farious  cruisings,  he  had  once  made  a  voyage  on  board 
of  a  haunted  ship.  It  was  a  vessel  that  had  been  met 
with  drifting,  half  dismantled,  and  with  flagging  sails, 
about  the  sea  near  the  Gulf  of  Florida,  between  the 
mainland  and  the  Bahama  banks.  Those  who  boarded 
her  found  her  without  a  hving  soul  on  board ;  the 
hatch- ways  were  broken  open ;  the  cargo  had  been 
rifled  ;  the  decks  fore  and  aft  were  covered  with  blood ; 
the  shrouds  and  rigging  were  smeared  with  the  same, 
as  if  some  wretched  beings  had  been  massacred  as  they 
clung  to  them ;  it  was  evident  that  the  ship  had  been 
plundered  by  pirates,  and,  to  all  appearance,  the  crew 
had  been  murdered  and  thrown  overboard. 

The  ship  was  taken  possession  of  by  the  finders,  and 
brought  to  Boston,  in  New  England ;  but  the  sailors 
who  navigated  her  to  port  declared  they  would  not 
make  such  another  voyage  for  all  the  wealth  of  Peru. 
They  had  been  harassed  the  whole  way  by  the  ghosts 
of  the  murdered  crew ;  who  at  night  would  come  up 
out  of  the  companion-way  and  the  forecastle,  run  up 
the  shrouds,  station  themselves  on  the  yards,  and  at  the 
mast-heads,  and  appear  to  perform  all  the  usual  duties 
of  the  ship. 

As  no  harm  had  resulted  from  this  ghostly  seaman- 
ship, the  story  was  treated  hghtly,  and  the  vessel  was 
fitted  out  for  another  voyage  ;  but  when  ready  for  sea, 
no  sailors  could  be  got  to  embark  in  her.  She  lay  for 
37 


328  friendship's    offering. 

some  time  in  Boston  harbour,  regarded  by  the  super- 
stitious seamen  as  a  fated  ship ;  and  there  she  might 
have  rotted,  had  not  the  worthy  captain  who  related  to 
me  the  story,  undertaken  to  command  her.  He  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  some  hardy  tars,  who  stood  less  in 
awe  of  ghosts,  to  accompany  him,  and  his  brother-in-law 
sailed  with  him  as  chief  mate. 

When  they  had  got  fairly  to  sea,  the  hobgoblin  crew 
began  to  play  their  pranks.  At  night  there  would  be 
the  deuce  to  pay  in  the  hold :  such  racketing  and 
rummaging,  as  if  the  whole  cargo  was  overhauled ; 
bales  tumbled  about,  and  boxes  broken  open ;  and  some- 
times it  seemed  as  if  all  the  ballast  was  shifted  from 
side  to  side.  All  this  was  heard  with  dismay  by  the 
sailors ;  and  even  the  captain's  brother-in-law,  who 
appears  to  have  been  a  very  sagacious  man,  was 
exceedingly  troubled  at  it.  As  to  the  captain  himself, 
he  honestly  confessed  to  me  that  he  never  saw  nor 
heard  any  thing ;  but  then  he  slept  soundly,  and,  when 
once  asleep,  was  hard  to  be  awakened. 

Notwithstanding  all  these  ghostly  vagaries,  the  ship 
arrived  safe  at  the  destined  end  of  her  voyage,  which 
was  one  of  the  South  American  rivers  under  the  hne. 
The  captain  proposed  to  go  in  his  boat  to  a  town  some 
distance  up  the  river,  leaving  his  ship  in  charge  of  his 
brother-in-law.  The  latter  said  he  would  anchor  her 
opposite  to  an  island  in  the  river,  where  he  could  go  on 


THE    HAUNTED    SHIP^  3*23 

shore  at  night,  and  yet  be  at  hand  to  keep  guard  upon 
her ;  but  that  nothing  should  tempt  him  to  sleep  on 
board.  The  crew  all  swore  the  same.  The  captain 
could  not  reasonably  object  to  such  an  arrangement :  so 
the  ship  was  anchored  opposite  to  the  island,  and  the 
captain  departed  on  his  expedition. 

For  a  time  all  went  well ;  the  brother-in-law  and  his 
sagacious  comrades  regularly  abandoned  the  ship  at 
night-fall,  and  slept  on  shore ;  the  ghosts  then  took 
command,  and  the  ship  remained  as  quietly  at  anchor 
as  though  she  had  been  manned  by  living  bodies  instead 
of  hobgoblin  sprites.  One  night,  however,  the  captain's 
brother-in-law  was  awakened  by  a  tremendous  storm. 
He  hastened  to  the  shore.  The  sea  was  lashed  up  in 
foaming  and  roaring  surges ;  the  rain  came  down  in 
torrents — the  lightning  flashed — the  thunder  bellowed. 
It  was  one  of  those  sudden  tempests  only  known  at  the 
tropics.  The  captain's  brother-in-law  cast  a  rueful  look 
at  the  poor  tossing  and  labouring  ship.  He  saw  num- 
bers of  uncouth  beings  busy  about  her,  who  were  only 
to  be  descried  by  the  flashes  of  lightning  or  by  pale 
fires  that  glided  about  the  rigging  ;  he  heard  occasionally 
the  piping  of  a  boatswain's  whistle,  or  the  bellowing  of 
a  hoarse  voice  through  a  speaking-trumpet.  The  ghosts 
were  evidently  striving  to  save  the  ship  ;  but  a  tropical 
storm  is  sometimes  an  over-match  for  ghost,  or  goblin, 
or  even  the himself.   In  a  word,  the  ship  parted 


330  friendship's   offering. 

her  cables,  drove  before  the  wind,  stranded  on  the 
rocks,  and  there  she  laid  her  bones. 

When  the  captain  returned  from  his  expedition  up 
the  river,  he  found  his  late  gallant  vessel  a  mere  hulk, 
and  received  this  wonderful  account  of  her  fate  from 
his  sagacious  brother-in-law.  Whether  the  wreck 
continued  to  be  haunted  or  not,  he  could  not  inform 
me  ;  and  I  forgot  to  ask  whether  the  owners  recovered 
anything  from  the  underwriters,  who  rarely  insure 
against  accidents  from  ghosts. 

Such  is  one  of  the  nearest  chances  I  have  ever  had 
of  getting  to  the  fountain-head  of  a  ghost-story.  I  have 
often  since  regretted  that  the  captain  should  have  been 
so  sound  a  sleeper,  and  that  I  did  not  see  his  brother- 
in-law. 


THE    END. 


King  Sc  Baird,  Print.  No.  0  George  St-  Philadelphia. 


